


What it Comes Down To

by Greycie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 48
Words: 380,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greycie/pseuds/Greycie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the hunt for the Horcruxes, the trio are captured and subjected to horrors at the hands of the Death Eaters. This is more than just a torture fic, it chronicles their lives, their struggles, and their relationships in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Capture

Harry came slowly, reluctantly, back to consciousness.  Sleep or unconsciousness were the only escape he had from the pain and despair.  Every part of him ached. Even his stomach and throat hurt, as he’d had no food and barely any water in the three days that he’d been held captive.  Well, not just him. Ron and Hermione had been captured, too. 

His entire body was black and blue, mostly from the Cruciatus curse, but some of the Death Eaters liked to be a bit more creative with their spells. Yet others liked to use their hands and fists to punish him.  Lucius preferred knives.  Harry dreaded him the most.  He took cruel pleasure in the agony he inflicted on Harry.

Still, he hadn’t broken. Not yet, anyway.  He knew if he did, Ron and Hermione were dead. They were in a separate room in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor.  Their captors kept both of them together, chained to the walls.  Harry knew this because he was led back to their cell when the Death Eaters were through with him for the night.  He was unable to speak to them, however, as silencing charms were placed around each of them.  Harry could see their blurry outlines (his glasses having been confiscated along with his wand), but not speak to them.  Other than looking hungry, dirty, and terrified, they seemed all right, alive at least, which was as much as he could hope for. 

They were the best weapons the Death Eaters had to keep Harry under their control.  It was also another way of torturing him, for they knew how much he cared for his best friends. He didn’t dare attempt anything that would jeopardize their relative safety.  Therefore, he prayed for endurance, for the strength to hold on until the Order could find and rescue them.

Why they hadn’t summoned Voldemort upon capture, Harry thought he knew.  Each of the Death Eaters wanted to punish him personally for eluding capture all this time, for making them look foolish, for making them suffer their Master’s wrath.  Each had a score to settle with him, and until they were satisfied, only then would they summon Voldemort. Then Harry would be free.  He longed for that moment, for the bolt of green light and the rush of death. He would’ve already begged for it if it weren’t for Ron and Hermione.  Somehow, he had to get them out of this.

It was his fault they were all in this mess in the first place. They were ambushed in the woods, where they'd camped for the night during their hunt for the Horcruxes. He’d said Voldemort’s name, and the enchantments around their tent were broken. Ten Death Eaters appeared almost immediately. Ron and Hermione went down fairly quickly from stunning spells, but Harry had broken away after taking two of them down. He could have run for it, but he couldn’t leave Ron and Hermione with the Death Eaters. They would be killed for sure.  So he surrendered to them. What choice did he have?  It was him they really wanted, anyway. 

He’d tried to negotiate Ron and Hermione’s release. Instead, the three of them were brought here, to Malfoy Manor.  He’d managed to send a Patronus message to the Order before they took his wand, though.  It was the only ray of hope he had.  The Order knew at least they’d been captured, but not where they were being held, or if they were even still alive now. He couldn’t let himself wonder if the Order had given up searching for them.  They had to be coming.

The door to the cell opened, and Harry could hear two people enter.  He didn’t stir, pretending to still be unconscious.  He was chained to the wall by his wrists, which were raw and bleeding.  He hung limply, his head on his bare chest, eyes closed, not wanting to see his newest tormentors.  The room was empty except for a small wooden table and a single chair.  Whoever had come to pay him a visit, or to make him pay as it were, dropped something on the table while the other approached.  Grabbing a handful of his hair, they jerked his head upwards. 

Harry groaned and reluctantly opened his eyes.  A pair of heavily hooded eyes stared back at him.  Bellatrix Lestrange; this wasn’t good.  She made Lucius look kind. Much of the most severe spell damage on his body had come from her sadistic skill with a wand.  Looking around the small room for her companion, Harry could make out her husband Rudolphus in the corner. 

_Grand_ , he thought miserably.  Harry had already been viciously introduced to his brother Rabastan, or his fists at least, earlier in the day. He didn’t expect to find Rudolphus any gentler.

“Hello, wittle Harry,” Bellatrix greeted him in the baby voice she adopted when taunting him, which he despised.  “Are you weady to play?”

Harry said nothing.  His mouth was so dry from lack of water and so torn from screaming, he didn’t know if he could anyway.  Bellatrix ran a long-nailed finger down the side of his cheek before releasing the hold she had in his hair.  His head fell forward again.  Then, without warning, she suddenly released the chains that held him pinned to the wall.  Harry was caught off guard and let out a little gasp of surprise as he fell in a heap to the floor.  Even if he’d known what she intended to do, he wasn’t sure if he could have supported his own weight. 

Before he could even attempt to stand, however, Rudolphus seized his upper arms and pulled him to his feet. Dragging him over to the chair, he dropped Harry in it without a word.  Harry groaned as his arms were wrenched behind his back. A recently knitted gash across his collar bone (a gift from Lucius) opened up again while his wrists were chained tightly around the back of the chair.

With a final tug on the chains, Rudolphus finished his work and stepped back as Bellatrix leaned in close to Harry.

“I’m going to make a man out of you, wittle Harry. Would you like that?” she breathed into Harry’s ear, making him shiver. “Or maybe you already are.” Pausing, she cocked her head to consider him.   

“Have you and the blood traitor been enjoying the company of the mudblood, hmm?” she asked before biting down on his earlobe, drawing blood and a hiss of pain from Harry, but no admission.  “No, I don’t think so.  Too noble, too naïve,” she decided, answering her own query as she strolled around his back, trailing her hand along his bare shoulders before coming to a stop in front of him. 

“Or maybe the Mudblood isn’t your type?  Perhaps the blood traitor’s little sister, then.  Is that it?  She’s a very pretty girl.  Did she let you touch her, wittle baby Potter?  Did she give herself to you?” 

Although Harry tried to remain stoic, he could feel the heat rising in his face as she studied him. Then she smiled widely.

“No, I think not.  She would have gladly given it to you, though, wouldn’t she, Harry?” she purred. 

Harry swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He could feel himself starting to shake, breathing more heavily. He remained defiantly silent, but he was starting to become panicky now.  She couldn’t possibly be saying what he thought she was saying.  They hated each other.  Her husband was feet from them.  Surely he would object to what she was suggesting?  Torture he could endure. This was more frightening by far.  He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and feel the dread churning in his empty stomach. 

The truth was, he’d never, he and Ginny had never. Though he fantasized about it a lot, they’d never done more than some heavy snogging.  He’d never been the aggressive one in either of the two short relationships (if that’s what you wanted to call them) he’d been in.  Both Cho and Ginny initiated every kiss, every touch.  Harry never dreamed of asking or taking more than what they’d offered.  He was so unused to any physical affection at all, having never received any from the Dursley’s, that he simply didn’t know how to ask for it, or so feared being rejected that it never occurred to him to try.

Bellatrix licked her lips and stood up slowly, still watching him closely. Her eyes traveled over his face.  He knew she could see the panic in his eyes and his pulse pounding in his neck, but he couldn’t hide the signs of his fear. Then, with a flick of her wand, she removed Harry’s remaining clothing, his dirty, ragged, and torn blue jeans and his boxers, his shirt having been torn to shreds and discarded after a round with Lucius and his knife. 

Harry yelped in fear and shock, looking quickly to Rudolphus, hoping that he would somehow stop this.  But Rudolphus was leering at him, his hand hidden down the front of his robes. 

Icy dread filled Harry’s veins then, and he began to struggle in earnest.  Bellatrix approached him. He kicked out at her with his leg, neither of them having been tied to the chair, but she was too quick for him. She hit him with the Cruciatus curse, and he screamed, writhing in the chair in agony, but she lifted it almost immediately and quickly cast another spell, binding his ankles to the chair legs. 

Harry was left panting, weak with the effort and now utterly defenseless against her.  She approached again.  Straddling his thighs, she caressed his cheek once more.  Harry jerked his head to the side, away from her touch.  It was the most he could do, bound as he was. 

Purring, she trailed her hand down his chest, over his nipple and down his ribs, leaving red fingernail marks everywhere she touched him.  His resistance was arousing her further.  Her eyes were dilated, her nostrils flared, and his might have looked the same, but for entirely different reasons. Harry could smell the sweat and fear coming off of him mixed with the smell of her arousal.  It made him gag. 

She reached for his flaccid member then and seized it in her hand.  His terror mounting, Harry tried to push back with this toes. Whimpering slightly, he tried to topple the chair, frantic to get her off him, to release him, but it was useless.  She pulled on his cock, the skin pulled up and over the head as she squeezed him painfully.  Her hands were cold around his heated flesh, making him feel nauseous, revolted that she would touch him there.  Then she started to stroke him, leaning into his face, perhaps to taunt him more. Harry didn’t give her the chance. 

Jerking his head forward with as much force as possible, he caught her by surprise when his forehead smashed into her mouth.  Bellatrix reeled backwards with a shriek of pain, releasing him as blood poured from her mouth.  Harry was left seeing stars himself, blood trickling into his eye. Maybe it was hers, maybe it was his.  He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.  All he felt was a flood of relief. An angry Bellatrix he could handle.  He hoped he’d angered her enough to abandon her original plan and resort to simply torturing him.  But although she was most definitely angry, she recovered quickly and smiled at him, looking feral now with her broken teeth stained with her own blood. It made him go cold all over.

“Oh, Potter,” she said, dropping the baby voice. “I’m going to make you pay for that.” 

Harry believed her as she spat a mouthful of blood on the floor. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, though her torn lip immediately welled up with blood again. Growling, she grabbed him once again, and although he wasn’t completely flaccid, he took satisfaction in knowing that her ministrations weren’t entirely successful either. 

Even though he’d never been touched like this before with any hand but his own, he knew that he was not fully erect, and if he could stay that way, it would be difficult for her to get what she wanted from him. Seeming to realize this herself, she leaned down unexpectedly and took him into her mouth. 

Harry’s whole body jerked in surprise, and he let out a yell of fear when her warm, bloody lips slid over him, afraid at first that she intended to tear him apart with her teeth. Fighting like hell to control the body that wanted to betray him then when it became clear that wasn’t her intent, he groaned as she began to suck hard.  The idea of Bellatrix touching him like this was repulsive.  The image of her mouth around him, seeing her head in his lap was disgusting. 

The Death Eaters and Voldemort had taken his parents and his childhood from him.  This hated woman had taken his Godfather from him, too.  He couldn’t allow them to take this one last thing away from him, his innocence.  Though he remained semi-hard, he didn’t know how long he could keep fighting, with her head bobbing up and down on his shaft and the incredible suction she was creating with her mouth.  It was all lost a moment later when she bit down in anger or frustration.  Harry froze as he became instantly hard, the pain doing what the pleasure could not. 

Bellatrix growled deep in her throat, her lips still around him, and then slowly, she slid him completely into her mouth, taking him in, down her throat all the way to the root.  Harry shuddered and then gasped as she dragged her jagged teeth along his shaft before releasing him with a wet pop. Standing up then, satisfied with her work, she quickly removed her robes.  She was wearing nothing underneath. 

Rudolphus grunted from beside them, startling Harry.  He’d almost forgotten her husband was in the room.  He hadn’t come to his wife’s aid when Harry had broken her teeth.  It appeared that he was just here to watch the show, which disgusted Harry even further.  Glancing at him, Harry realized that the fronts of his robes were open, and he was stroking himself as he leaned against the table.  Harry could see the red swollen head of his cock peeking out through his fist with every stroke, and a fresh wave of nausea flooded Harry. _The bastard was getting off watching this!_

Bellatrix quickly straddled him, grasping him from behind, and guiding him to her entrance. Harry began to panic again when he felt the head of the erection he couldn’t will away, penetrating her.

“Please don’t do this,” Harry begged her, finally driven to speech in his desperation.  “Please!” 

She said nothing, merely looked into his eyes, watching his reaction as she sank down onto him, sliding home, taking him all the way inside her. All three of them groaned. When he was fully seated inside her, she began to rock her hips, back and forth.  Slowly she ground her pelvis into his with her mad eyes still on him, reveling in his reaction while Harry whispered a denial each time she rocked into him.

“No… No... No...”

Grasping the back of the chair Harry was tied to, Bellatrix threw back her head, striking up a rhythm as she rocked faster and faster over him while her husband grunted and panted next to them.  Harry felt like he was going to be sick.  It felt incredible, and he hated himself for feeling it.  Biting down on his lip, he tried to block it out, tried to separate himself from it like he had with all the other torture he’d endured in this Godforsaken place.  Crawling into a dark hole within himself in an attempt to protect his sanity, he’d taken refuge there while the Death Eaters did unspeakable things to him.  It was the only thing that kept him from breaking down in here, from screaming in continual agony, from crying and begging them to stop, or to kill him. 

He’d found that dark hole inside him the first day of their capture, and it was the only reason he was still here.  The only reason he, Ron, and Hermione were still alive.  That outlet seemed to be closed to him now, though, because this wasn’t excruciating pain he was experiencing.  He couldn’t push himself away from the pleasure of it.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried desperately to pretend that this was Ginny, instead.  That his first time was with her and not the violation he was experiencing at the hands of Bellatrix, but he couldn’t do that either.  A tear leaked out of the corner of his eye and ran down the side of his face, the first one they’d ever gotten out of him.

Suddenly, something wrapped around his throat, a piece of cord, or a rope that was constricting his breath as it was pulled tight around his neck.  His eyes flew open, and he bucked wildly in the chair, desperate for air.  Bellatrix was still riding him frantically now, her face flushed with pleasure while Rudolphus strangled him from behind.  Harry opened and closed his mouth, trying frantically to draw breath, his hands scrabbling at the chair while, at the same time, pressure started building in his balls. The pleasure surged each time their bodies crashed together.  Stars started to appear before his eyes.  His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline flooded through him from the panic, and goose bumps erupted all over his body. 

Then, as the need for breath overwhelmed him, and his sight began to dim, Rudolphus finally released the cord an instant before he blacked out. Harry immediately exploded into orgasm. His whole body jerked as he gasped and choked, gulping great lung-fulls of air while his seed pumped into Bellatrix, her muscles contracting around him with her own orgasm as she milked him. 

When they were both spent and Harry was left dizzy and shuddering, she grasped his face, holding handfuls of hair in each fist and kissed him hard, thrusting her tongue roughly in his mouth and cutting off his air again. Then she pulled back, sucked his bottom lip into her mouth and bit down hard.  Harry yelled as blood poured from his lip into both of their mouths.  She swallowed it while lifting herself off him and immediately cast a Cruciatus curse on him again.  Rudolphus in turn, appeared to have vanished the chair because Harry fell to the dirt floor, arms still shackled behind his back, screaming in pain. His whole body was arching off the ground as he contorted in agony.

It went on a long time.  Harry prayed for the blackness of unconsciousness to take him, but it didn’t, maybe because of the adrenaline still coursing through him.  He didn’t know and was beyond caring now as he flopped and writhed like a landed fish on the shore.  Then it was over, and Harry was left panting, all of his muscles spasming in the aftermath, curled on the dirt floor, naked and bleeding, covered in bruises and coated in Bellatrix’s and his own juices. 

With difficulty, he rolled onto his side and then up.  Sitting on his knees, his head spinning, he retched, but there was no food or water in his stomach, only a small amount of blood, which he spat out.  He remained there on his knees, still panting, praying for it to be over, for a while anyway.  He needed some time before the next round to re-group.  But then he was abruptly grabbed by the back of the neck, his head forced roughly into the dirt floor.  Rudolphus was on his knees behind him now, and Harry instantly knew what was about to happen. Rudolphus hadn’t just come for the show. He fully intended to participate! 

“NO!” Harry screamed, fighting wildly to throw Rudolphus off him, but the hand pinning his head to the ground wouldn’t budge, and with his hands tied behind his back, Harry couldn’t push himself off the ground.  He heard Bellatrix’s evil cackle of laughter, and a surge of hatred shot through every particle of Harry’s body.  He must have become electrified or something for a moment because Rudolphus yelped and quickly released him. 

He’d done wandless magic.  Something similar had happened once when his uncle tried to strangle him the summer before his fifth year at Hogwarts.  Before Harry could struggle up, however, Rudolphus had recovered and seized him again around the throat.  Still cursing, he pinned Harry’s face to the ground with one hand.  With the other, he grasped Harry by the scrotum hanging between his parted legs and squeezed. Harry stopped struggling immediately, panting hard, his teeth gritted in pain.  But when Rudolphus spat on himself for lubrication and he felt the tip of Rudolphus’ cock pressing against his entrance, Harry lost all thought of anything else except getting away as he screamed and fought and kicked like a wild animal.

_Oh, God! This couldn’t be happening to him.  Please, God no!_   But he couldn’t get away, and Rudolphus was pressing against his opening. 

Harry was whimpering incessantly now, blind with panic as Rudolphus pushed into him, the swollen head now past Harry’s tight ring of muscles.  It burned as it stretched him open. Rudolphus growled when Harry squeezed his muscles around him, trying in vain to expel him. 

Digging his toes into the dirt, Harry tried to inch forward then, to push himself away from Rudolphus’ invading cock.  He heard Rudolphus chuckle behind him, enjoying Harry’s fruitless struggle.  Then he stopped his relentless drive forward a moment to watch Harry fight against him, or to draw out the moment, to prolong Harry’s fear before he finally took him.

“Brace yourself, Harry, dear,” Bellatrix told him as she ran her finger down his spine, cackling madly. “This is going to hurt.”

Then Harry heard sounds that made him sure they were kissing behind him, both of them aroused it seemed by what they were doing to him.

Rudolphus gripped his neck tighter, and Harry’s whole body tensed up.  Then he screamed, inhaling dirt as Rudolphus gave a single, powerful thrust and rammed into him.  It felt like a branding iron had seared his insides. Then Rudolphus pulled back again for another thrust.  Harry felt his skin tearing, and he gagged up blood and dirt and bile. 

Harry begged for him to stop, bowing up his back to get away from the pain of it, to lessen the depth of his penetration as Rudolphus slammed into him again and again while Harry continued to cry out in agony. 

His own blood was mixing with the pre-cum coating Rudolphus, and with his way more lubricated, he struck up a rhythm.  After several more thrusts, he let go of Harry’s head and grasped his hips, pulling Harry roughly back into him over and over.  Pain radiated through him every time their bodies slammed together, but Harry had stopped resisting. Something inside of him was finally breaking.   

Harry’s submission appeared to spur Rudolphus on, and he pumped into Harry harder, ramming into him without mercy.  It seemed to go on and on.  Through the haze of pain, Harry could vaguely hear Rudolphus’ grunts of pleasure and Bellatrix’s cackle of laughter as they taunted him with lewd comments about what a slut he was, and how much he was enjoying it.

_Let it end,_ he prayed. _Please._

Then Rudolphus grabbed him by the back of the head, jerking him roughly off the ground by his hair and grasping him around the waist with his other arm.  Harry’s head was tilted painfully far back so that he was staring up at the ceiling now, his back arched, his arms bound and useless between their joined bodies. 

Pumping frantically, erratically, and growling in his ear, Rudolphus finally came.  Harry could feel his vile warm sperm shoot into him as Rudolphus shuddered, his cock jerking inside Harry with every spasm.  When he was finished, he released Harry to fall back onto the dirt floor. 

Harry’s cheek hit the ground, and he felt nothing more.  It was all fading. Wisps of gray fog seemed to be covering his eyes, and he was so grateful for the darkness finally overtaking him.  He’d never welcomed it more. He wasn’t aware of them dragging him back into the cell with Hermione and Ron, of being shackled to the wall nude and bleeding, covered in dirt, blissful nothingness. 

~ . ~

 


	2. Hermione

Hermione watched them dragging Harry back into the cell the three of them shared.  Or she and Ron shared; Harry was only a part-time resident.  She began to weep as soon as she saw his battered body.  She had taken to cataloging every wound, bruise or cut that she could see after he’d spent the day in the company of the Death Eaters. Today, though, she could hardly bring herself to look upon him. He was nude, but covered in dirt.  What she did see was a terrible red mark around his neck. 

Had they strangled him?  Oh, God!  Was he dead?  Harry was completely lifeless while they chained him to the wall.  His body hung limp, suspended only by his wrists.

Once secured, Rudolphus stepped away from Harry.  Bellatrix ran her hand through Harry’s hair and down his cheek almost lovingly.  Then she slowly turned and smiled at Hermione.  It looked as if her lip was bleeding.  Hermione hoped like hell it was.  Hoped Harry was still fighting them with everything he had.  Bellatrix laughed once, her eyes crackling with madness, and then she and her husband left.  Only then did Hermione get a clear look at Harry, and it broke her heart. 

She studied her friend’s face. Even unconscious, he looked haggard. Dark circles had formed under his eyes. Three days’ growth of beard darkened his chin. One cheek had been bruised so badly that his right eye had been almost swollen shut. That was the first day. It looked worse now. The swelling was going down, but the bruise was turning purple and green. Today his whole face seemed red, puffy, and swollen, possibly from the strangulation.  His bottom lip was also swollen and bloody, and Hermione was sure she saw teeth marks in the skin there and on one of his ears. 

The last thing she took note of on his face were the tear tracks left behind in the dirt of his face.  She hadn’t seen that before, and her breath hitched a little to see it now, though neither Harry nor Ron could hear her with the silencing charm around her.  She couldn’t stand it if they were breaking him.  She knew what it meant.  What it meant for all of them. 

Taking a deep breath, she continued her examination. It looked as if the wound on his shoulder had re-opened.  It was weeping blood, mixing with the dirt and drying on his chest.  She studied his neck.  Her eyes mapping every inch of the raw flesh she found there.  It was hard to tell if he had any other new wounds or bruises with the dirt covering him. 

Her gaze moved down his body.  She tried to avert her eyes to his nakedness.  Harry was a private person, and she knew he would be embarrassed to be seen like this if he were conscious.  Instead, she focused on his legs. Her eyes traveled down his right thigh and over his knee.  It appeared to be red, she noted, as if he was kneeling at some point, maybe for a while from the look of them.  Then down to his foot, no new injuries there. 

She moved to his left leg.  One sock inexplicably remained on this foot, though it had been pulled loose when they had dragged him in.  Her eyes journeyed up his calf and she found the same redness on this knee.  But what she found on his thigh made Hermione squeeze her eyes shut.  Blood was trickling down the inner thigh of his left leg, moving though the dirt, gravity forging a path slowly down his leg towards that one filthy sock. 

And she knew.  She knew what it meant; what they had done.  Hermione turned to look at Ron, but she didn’t need to see the horror on his face to confirm in her mind what they’d done to him.  Mad Bellatrix and her equally mad husband, Rudolphus had violated Harry in the worst possible way.

Oh, God! They’d raped him.  Hermione wanted to look away, to stop looking, and never see again.  She was so helpless here, she and Ron, unable to help Harry, unable to stop these vile people from torturing him, unable to speak to him or each other and try to formulate a plan for escape or at the very least, to comfort.  But worst of all, she knew that it was her fault, hers and Ron’s, for being captured so easily.  Harry had given himself up to the Death Eaters for them, and now they could do nothing but witness what the Death Eaters were doing to him.  Watch as he suffered.  And she knew that she would look again, would see it all.  Be a witness, albeit a silent one, to all that he endured for them because it was all she could do. 

She watched him through tears, watched as his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, feeling her hope falling, too.  She watched, and knew when unconsciousness turned to sleep, when sleep turned to dreams, when dreams turned to nightmares.  She watched him jerk and cry out, though she heard not a sound through the silencing charm.  She watched as he came awake and aware of himself and his surroundings, watched the remembering coming over him, of where he was and what they’d done to him.  Harry retched, and Hermione knew that if he could, he would have curled into a ball in misery.  As it was, he slid as far down the wall as his shackled wrists would allow and pulled his knees into himself, shaking violently. 

Harry glanced at her once to see if she still watched.  His eyes looked dead and glassy.  It terrified her more than anything she had seen yet on this dawning of the fourth day of their captivity. It was the fourth day of no food, no sleep, and no break from the torment of watching. 

~ . ~


	3. Harry

Harry jerked awake with a cry, his whole body bathed in sweat. For a wild moment, he did not know where he was, or if he was still in his terrible dream.  His heart pounded, and panic lingered from a nightmare that he couldn’t distinguish from reality any longer. They were all the same thing now.  Having supported him for so long, his arms were completely numb from the shoulders to the tips of his fingers.  He ached everywhere, but a screaming in his lower back was drowning his other injuries out at the moment.  The pain throbbed with every breath and every heartbeat. 

Struggling to get his feet underneath him, Harry pushed his back against the wall, shaking violently, doubling up as much as possible to try and get some relief from the agony that had stolen his breath.  When he saw the dried blood trail down his inner thigh, a wave of nausea rolled over him.  His stomach lurched, and he dry heaved, which brought fresh waves of pain radiating through him. 

Panting, he looked up at Hermione.  Of course, he thought miserably, she’d seen the blood, too.  She'd seen all that they had done to him.  He knew it.  He knew she watched him, but he thanked God that his eyesight was so poor because he didn’t think he could stand to see the pity in hers right now.

He had no idea how long he’d been out this time, how long he had before they came back for him, how long he had to steel himself for what fresh horror they had planned today.  He only knew that it wouldn’t be nearly long enough. He just hoped to God that when they did come for him, whoever his torturer was, it would not be Bellatrix again. 

Turns out, he didn’t have long to wait. Wasn’t that just his luck? The cell door opened, silent to Harry’s ears, and in strolled Macnair.  Glancing around the room, he checked that each of the prisoners was present and accounted for.  He carried a wooden bucket and a ladle.  Water sloshed out of the rim as he walked, spilling droplets of the precious liquid onto the dirt floor. Harry’s throat ached, his tongue going dryer with anticipation, but he would have to wait, it seemed, as Macnair walked first to Ron, who appeared to still be sleeping.  A quick hard slap to Ron’s face jerked him out of his slumber.  Harry could see that Ron was cursing, though he couldn’t hear them or see clearly enough to make out the words.  But he could see the handprint on Ron’s face turning white as his ears turned red. 

No matter how much Ron objected to his wakeup call, he didn’t seem to object to the water Macnair offered him.  He gulped down all that was offered. Some dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt.  Harry’s tongue darted out to lick his dry lips.

Hermione was next, though of course, she was already awake. She, too, took all that was offered.  Finally it was his turn. Harry pushed himself farther up the wall, as close to standing as he could manage as he shook with anticipation. Macnair filled the ladle and brought it to Harry’s lips. He gulped it down in huge swallows.  Like Ron, it splashed down his chin and his chest.  Three more times the ladle was filled, and Harry greedily accepted each of them even though his stomach had started to roll.  God, it felt so good on the sandpaper that was his throat that he was actually feeling gratitude to Macnair for what he thought of as a kindness, at least until Macnair leaned into him, running the ladle down Harry’s chest, his belly, and then his flaccid cock.

“Rudolphus told me that he an’ Bella sure did enjoy your company last evenin’ Potter,” he said with a leer. “Said you was a right whore.”  Leaning in even closer then so that Harry could smell his breath, he whispered, “I'm lookin’ forward to findin’ out for me’self later today.”  With that, he tried to lick the side of Harry’s face. 

Harry jerked himself backwards, smacking his head against the stone wall as all the color drained from his face. 

Dropping the ladle back into the bucket with a plop, Macnair’s ugly face broke into a wide grin, exposing his yellowing teeth.

“I’ll be seein’ ya’, Potter,” he said with a wink. Then he reached out and pinched Harry’s nipple hard, twisting it between his calloused fingers before releasing it and leaving the dungeon.

He made good on his promise later in the day.  Lucius appeared to have no desire to touch Harry in that way. So after another morning round with him and his knives in the torture room, Harry was left alone for an hour or so with a fresh set of bloody wounds, having screamed enough to satisfy Lucius before Macnair was back.  He wasn’t alone, though.  Two others followed him into the room: that damned giant blonde Death Eater from the café, and Fenrir Greyback.  Before they were through with him, Harry was begging for another round with Lucius.  It was his first visit from Greyback, and if there was a God, Harry prayed to never have another.

Macnair released him from the wall and meant to drag him to the table in the middle of the small room.  Harry fought with everything he had, cursing and spitting as it took all three of them to pull him towards the table.  He showed remarkable strength, and his growls were more like an animal than Greyback’s, but the battle was hopeless. The three of them were just too much for him to overcome.

In a moment of sheer panic, adrenaline burst from him. A powerful wave of energy blew them all backwards off their feet and sent them crashing into the walls.  Harry couldn’t even comprehend this latest bit of magic, but scrambled for the door.  He might have been yelling, or sobbing, or both, his vision tunneling so that the only thing he saw was the exit. 

His escape attempt was over before he got three stumbling steps towards it.  The blonde Death Eater had recovered first and delivered a powerful blow to Harry’s kidney.  Harry dropped to his knees, unable even to breathe. Another to the side of his head, and he saw stars, stunned senseless by the impact. Their second effort to get him bent over the table was much more successful, and once he was secured, it was over.

They were a lot more interested in their own pleasure than Rudolphus had been.  One of them cast a lubricating spell on him before roughly inserting two fingers into his arse, stretching him so there would be less discomfort for themselves while he pleaded with them to let him go.  More fire erupted into Harry as the healing wounds from Rudolphus’ invasion the night before were re-opened, fresh blood mixing with the lubrication from the spell. 

Then they took turns with him, rutting behind him, grunting in pleasure as they ripped him open.  Macnair first, who jerked Harry’s own flaccid cock throughout the assault as if somehow hoping to pleasure Harry, or maybe to humiliate him more by attempting to get him to ejaculate or at least get hard during the brutal rape. The blonde was second, whose dick was just as enormous as the rest of him, stretching Harry so that he thought he might actually rip in two as he lifted Harry onto his toes to better accommodate for his size and height. Then Fenrir finally, who was the most savage of them all, his filthy nails dragging through Harry’s scalp as he yanked his head back while he slammed him into the table over and over again in a wild frenzy.  Biting Harry on the back and shoulder with his razor sharp teeth when he came, the head of his cock swelled inside Harry so that they were fused together for long minutes after his release, just like a pair of dogs Harry had seen together near the park once.  The image made him gag. 

When he was able to free himself, Fenrir licked the wounds on Harry’s back and shoulder, sealing them with his saliva as Harry shivered with revulsion.  Harry wondered vaguely if he would be like Bill now, wanting his steak rare, and then, in a bemused sort of way, wondering if he should get a fang earring for his ear, too.

“Delicious,” Greyback growled into Harry’s ear, licking the blood from his lips as he rubbed his spent cock against Harry’s thigh.

“I’d like to keep that tight little cunt of yours all for myself, pup. You’d be my little bitch and scream like that for me every night. It won’t matter to me if it’s during your bleeding time again or not.  I like a nice bloody cunt, myself.  I’ll even let you suck my cock clean again afterwards, and have you lap all your juice off my balls with that little pink tongue of yours. Would you like that, pup?” he asked, rubbing his finger in circles against Harry’s torn hole.

Harry shuddered again with disgust and impotent fury, his fingers curling into fists on the table.

“Oh, the things I could do to you. But maybe the Dark Lord will at least let me have another taste of your sweet, tender flesh before he kills you,” he continued, slapping Harry on the arse and squeezing the cheek, his nails digging in the flesh. “Maybe a nice mouthful of this succulent piece right here.”

“Go… fuck… yourself,” Harry wheezed.

The others snorted with laughter, and Greyback growled, baring his bloodstained teeth at Harry as he leaned into his face.

“I’ll have your liver, boy, and eat it right in front of you after I’ve fucked you raw again,” he spat while the other two continued to chuckle behind them.

“Get… get in line. Dogs like you… don’t get… first dibs.”

That shut them up.  All three went quiet for a moment. Then Greyback’s guttural growl grew into a roar.  Harry didn’t hear the spell he cast, but it was a new one as his body was suddenly screaming with the pain of what felt like a thousand hot knives penetrated his flesh. He only knew that it went on for a very long time, until his knees had long given out and he lay stretched across the table, supported and held up only by his wrists.

Then they left him there, strapped down to the table. Blood and spunk ran down both of his legs with the stench of blood and sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Harry didn’t know how long he remained like that, drifting in and out of consciousness, but it felt like a long time later when his arms were finally released from their bonds. Without their support to hold him up, Harry slipped to the floor, lifeless as a rag doll.  He wished he could lay there on the dirt floor forever, but of course, he was denied.

“Get up, Potter,” came a familiar drawl, though it sounded scared. 

It took a moment for Harry to realize that it was Draco who was with him then.

“God, you reek, Potter.  _Scourgify_.”

Harry felt the cleaning spell scrubbing the dirt and filth from his body, leaving him feeling red and raw all over and re-opening half the cuts on his battered body. Opening his eyes, Harry saw the familiar blond head and pale pointed face of Draco Malfoy looking down on him with a mixture of fear and disgust.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry mumbled, his voice barely a whisper.

“I have food for you,” he replied.  “Get up and get in the chair at the table, and no funny stuff.” 

Harry just stared up at him, dumbfounded, but after a moment or two, he lifted himself laboriously off the floor and over to the chair Malfoy had set near the table.  The lure of food was too strong for him to ignore, and so he did as he was told.  Slowly he sat down. It hurt like hell, but it was the first time he had had the luxury since his last round with Bellatrix.  That thought brought back a wave of memories, and the sight of the table where his most recent violation had taken place made him queasy.  Still, when Malfoy pushed a plate with a cheese sandwich and half an apple in front of him, he forgot about everything else besides his aching hunger.  He devoured the sandwich in three bites. In another two, the apple was also gone.

“Water,” Harry croaked out, and after a quick, “ _Aguamenti,_ ” a glass of cool water was slid his direction.  Harry gulped it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  Dizzy then, he slumped back into the chair, feeling extremely full.  His stomach must have shrunk in the last few days without a scrap of food.

“Ron and Hermione?” Harry asked weakly.

“I already took them theirs.”

Harry nodded. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then awkwardly, Draco asked, “Do you want more water?”

“Yes, please,” Harry responded. He was feeling extremely full, but he took what was offered, not knowing when, or if, it would be offered again. 

When it was gone, Draco vanished the plate and glass with a quick wave of his wand.  Harry eyed it, but had no real hope of resting it from him. He was just too weak to try and overpower Draco, and he didn’t think Draco would just hand it over if he simply asked nicely. Before Harry could formulate a plan to attempt to try, the door opened, and two people entered.  One was Dolohov, but the other Harry didn’t remember ever seeing before.

“Oi, Draco!  Whatcha’ doin?  Havin’ a nice little chat with the Boy Who Won’t Be Livin’ Much Longer?”

“No, I was just…” Draco stammered. “I just brought him some food. Mother’s orders.” 

“Well, run along back to your mummy, boy, ‘cause we got some business with Potter here.”

Draco didn’t leave, however.  Backing against the wall, Harry’s childhood nemesis watched as they dragged him, unresisting, from the chair. Going to work on him almost immediately, they pummeled him with their fists and kicked him in the ribs when he was down.  But no matter how many times Harry fell to the ground, he still struggled back to his feet again, swaying and spitting blood. 

Draco watched the brutal scene, his face filling with horror. Every time Harry staggered back up, he found Draco’s eyes, the green boring into palest gray.  After another punch to the gut, Harry doubled over and dropped to his knees again, fighting to hold on to his meager meal.

“Stay down, Potter,” Draco warned him.  “Stay down, you stupid git!” 

But he wouldn’t.  Harry pulled himself up yet again. The Death Eaters were becoming more and more furious with every failure.  Finally, a savage kick by Dolohov to Harry’s right leg caused him to howl in pain, a loud crack signaling the bone giving way in his shin.  Harry went down again and didn’t get up this time.  They weren’t finished, though, and he curled into a ball as they continued to kick him in the ribs and the back, everywhere they could reach.

“Stop or you’ll kill him!” Draco yelled in panic. “And if the Dark Lord finds out, we’ll all be dead!”

They did stop then, and Harry was grateful.  His vision was going gray, and he knew he was going out again. He heard Draco cast one more spell before he lost consciousness. 

“ _Episky_.” 

Then there was a wrenching pain in his leg before it went hot all over. 

Harry sighed in relief, then knew no more. 

~ . ~


	4. Ron

Ron strained against the chains pinning him against the rough stone wall, trying for the millionth time to pull himself free from the restraints around his wrists or pull them loose from the wall.  He was hopeful that the lack of food would have caused enough weight loss to loosen the metal cuffs or that the relentless assault on the links attaching him to the wall would have weakened them enough to break.  He was fooling himself, though, and worse, he knew it.  But he couldn’t simply just stand here hour upon hour, day upon day, and do nothing at all.

At first, he was terrified they were all going to die.  Then they started in on Harry.  Ron kept waiting for his turn, and the fear made him shake all over.  Seeing what they were doing to Harry, Ron didn’t think he could take it, but the most they had done to either him or Hermione was starve them. 

Before their capture, Ron would have said that starving was a terrible torture.  He knew better now.  Starving did suck, especially when the rumbling in your stomach was the only thing you had for company and all the time in the world to dwell on it.  When no other sounds could penetrate through a silencing charm, it was only your own breathing, your own heartbeat, your own fucked-up thoughts, and the constant rumblings of your stomach, to remind you that you weren’t actually going deaf. 

His thoughts were fucked up, and his dreams were of nothing but food — his mother’s excellent cooking steaming on the table, baked chicken and ham, boiled potatoes, chocolate cake.  Hell, he was so hungry he would take one of her corned beef sandwiches right now, more than one if she were offering.  He dwelled on it so often that he worried he might actually go insane before they were rescued, or tortured to death, or handed over to He Who Must Not Be Named himself. And that damned itch on his chest was driving him BAT SHIT CRAZY!! 

It alternated between a tickling and a burning sensation.  It felt like bugs were crawling over his skin, maybe spiders, tickling the hairs on his chest, making him unable to stand still. His hands twitched with longing, and if he ever got loose, he would finally scratch himself raw.  Balling them into fists instead, he yanked again as hard as he could on the chains, over and over again, until he fell back against the wall exhausted, covered in sweat.

Standing there in defeat, breathing hard, he watched Hermione through the long fringe plastered to his forehead.  Her head rested on her shoulder, her hair falling over her face.  He believed she was finally sleeping, maybe for the first time since they’d been captured, he thought with relief.  Ron guessed at some point it was simply inevitable.  She looked so worn, though, pale and drawn. 

No matter how frightened he was for himself, he was more frightened for Hermione.  If they hurt her… Oh, God! He couldn’t stand the thought of it.  And he felt like such a complete arse for being relieved that they hadn’t tired of Harry yet.  That they hadn’t turned to Hermione for entertainment, especially after they brought Harry back last night.  

Fucking Bellatrix and Rudolphus!  The sight of Harry nude and that blood made Ron go white with fear, partly for himself, but even more for Hermione.  And he felt ashamed that he was glad it was Harry they'd raped and not Hermione, disgusted by the relief he felt that it was Harry who was taking so much abuse, Harry who was protecting them by sacrificing his body.

He saw movement to his right. The cell door was opening. He thought for a moment that they were bringing Harry back, but it was only that git, Malfoy inching slowly into the room.  He looked utterly terrified, Ron thought. For some reason, that pleased him.  Draco waived his wand once in a circular motion, and Ron flinched before he realized that it was only the silencing charms being dropped.

“Stay back against the wall,” Malfoy warned, which was wholly unnecessarily, Ron thought, as they were chained to the damned thing. 

He saw Hermione startle awake out of the corner of his eye.

“I brought you some food.  I’m gonna loosen the chains so you can eat it, but if you try anything, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

The threat would have been better, Ron decided, if his voice hadn’t been shaking while he was delivering it, but he was willing to do whatever the ferret said for the chance at some food.  He felt the chains binding his wrists slacken. As soon as he was able, he clawed at the spot on his chest that had been tickling him for hours and felt like crying with relief.

“’Mione?”  He croaked, his voice weak from disuse and dehydration.

“I’m okay, Ron,” she assured him, though she was crying again.  He felt like crying, too, at the sound of her voice. “Where’s Harry?  I think I may have fallen asleep.”

“You did. They haven’t brought him back yet. You weren’t out very long.”

“Shut up and get on your knees,” Draco yelled. “Or you get nothing.”

Ron glared at him, but obeyed, sinking slowly to his knees. His arms pulled back over his head once the slack was gone from the chains.  Near him, Hermione did the same.  Once they were on their knees and he was sure they couldn’t reach him, Draco approached, sliding a tray with what looked like a cheese sandwich and a half an apple towards him.  To Ron, it looked like a king’s feast.  His mouth watered immediately. 

After sliding Hermione her tray and backing up against the cell door, Draco waved his wand again and the chains slackened once more.  It seemed to take forever.

As soon as he was able, Ron reached for the sandwich and crammed the whole thing in his mouth, barely chewing it at all before swallowing it down his dry throat.  Before he reached for the apple, a glass full of water appeared on the tray, and he grabbed at that next to wash the sandwich down, sloshing a bit over the side and onto his hand in his haste.  The apple went next, and in moments, the tray was empty.  Ron stared at it longingly.

His supper gone, he looked over at Hermione. She was eating much more slowly, taking delicate little bites from her sandwich as if she were sitting at the Gryffindor table at Hogwarts, not kneeling on a dirt floor, her wrists in chains.  It seemed absurd that she would take so much time over it when she had had nothing to eat for days. He thought inexplicably of them at Hogwarts again, Hermione refusing to eat food cooked by the house elves, her arms crossed over her chest while he tried to tempt her with different puddings in turn. 

Ron smiled at the memory of her at the table the next morning, wolfing down breakfast before running off to the library.  Little had he known that soon she would be bullying both Harry and himself into joining SPEW.  He actually snorted then at the memory so strong in his mind’s eye that he expected to hear her admonish him for his poor table manners.  How the hell had they gone from there to here in just a few short years?

When her tray was also empty, Draco vanished them and forced them back to their feet by retracting the chains binding their wrists again. Ron was sorry to be leaving his knees and the relief he found in his legs and shoulders from so many days in the same position, but at least the fucking itch was gone.  His chest bore angry red marks from his too-long nails digging at the flesh that had been driving him mad for so long.  Now it just stung from the scratches.

Draco turned to leave the dungeon, but Hermione called out to him.

“Draco?”

He turned back to look at her warily.

“Draco, please, we need your help,” she pleaded.

After a pause, he said, “I can’t help you, Granger.  I’m sorry.  I can’t.” Hurrying out of the room, he left Ron and Hermione to stare after him.

“Fucking Git!”  Ron muttered.

“Ron," she cried in an excited whisper. "He forgot to re-cast the silencing charm.”  

It hadn’t dawned on him what a gift Draco had given them until she mentioned it.  They could speak freely to each other for the first time in four days.

“I’m so scared for Harry, Ron.  We’ve got to get him out of here, and I don’t have any idea what to do,” she whispered, looking frantic.

“I don’t either, ‘Mione, but he can’t last much longer.”

“Shhh, keep your voice down, Ron.  I don’t want them to hear us and realize their mistake.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Sooner or later, they’ll tire of playing with him and summon Vol… the Dark Lord, and we have to get ourselves out of here before that happens.  We can’t keep waiting for the Order to come rescue us.  I don’t think Harry can last much longer either.  After last night…”  Her voice trailed off and her eyes filled with tears again. “Oh, God, Ron, they’re killing him!” She broke down into sobs then.

“I know, Hermione. We’ll think of something. We will. We always do.”

They talked in whispers for hours, formulating plots and discarding them just as fast, comforting each other with their words, not realizing for a long time that Harry hadn’t been brought back to their cell that night. 

~ . ~

 


	5. The Long Night

Harry met Ginny on the first floor landing after depositing his birthday presents on the camp bed in Ron’s bedroom.

“Come into my room a minute, Harry,” she said, grabbing his hand. 

Feeling nervous, he glanced around to see if anyone was nearby.  He’d never been in her room before.  Ginny led him in and closed the door behind her, then turned to face him.  She had a hard look in her eyes that he’d seen only a few times before.

“I wanted to get you something special for your birthday, but I couldn’t think what to get.”

“You don’t have to get me anything, Ginny,” he began.

“Something for you to remember me by,” she continued, stepping closer to him. “You know, if you meet some Veela when you’re off with Ron and Hermione, doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

Harry swallowed.  Ginny was closing the gap between them, and he ached to touch her. 

“Well, I don’t think there will be that many dating opportunities on the ground, to be quite honest,” he told her with a nervous laugh.

“There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for,” she replied. Then she was kissing him like she’d never kissed him before, and he was kissing her back, his hand between her shoulder blades, pulling her into his chest, the other in her glorious hair. 

Her hands were on his face, in his hair, holding him firmly to her, pressing his glasses into his face. No Ron burst in on them this time, however, and the kiss deepened, grew more frantic.  She ran her tongue along his lips, and Harry opened his mouth automatically to accept it.  A thrill of excitement and longing shot through him as they explored each other’s mouths with their tongues, and Harry didn’t care any longer that he was alone with Ginny in her bedroom, that her entire family was downstairs and could come charging in at any moment.  Or that he was supposed to be staying away from her now for her own protection.  All he could think of was how good she felt, how much he’d missed her, and how much he wanted her.  He hadn’t realized she had been slowly walking him backwards until his backside hit the wall and then his head, breaking them apart.

“Oh, God, Ginny,” he groaned. “You’re so beautiful!” 

Her eyes blazed again, and she pressed their bodies together from chest to knee.  Fire erupted through his veins. His hands gripped her hips, trying to pull her even closer as she ground herself into him.  His whole body shook with need, and he moaned in pleasure. They were kissing again, her hands back in his hair, then trailing down his chest and onto the front of his zipper, cupping him.  Blood pounded in his ears, his heartbeat frantic in his chest.  What she was doing to him was causing his vision to darken with lust, his breath to come in pants, and his head to swim. He had never been with her like this before. She’d never been so bold, and he moaned again when she rubbed him through the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Please don’t stop,” he whispered breathlessly into her hair. “Please don’t.”

“Does it feel good, Harry?”

“Yeeeessss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, which made her laugh into his ear. 

But I wasn’t Ginny’s laugh. It was someone else’s, someone he despised. It was the laugh she gave when Harry was chasing her through the Ministry of Magic after Sirius had fallen through the veil.

“I killed Sirius Black,” she sang, laughing her mad laughter.

Harry’s eyes flew open, and he made to sit up, but he was strapped down by his arms and ankles, flat on his back. It only took a moment for him to realize where he was, in the torture room at Malfoy Manor, and who was with him, Bellatrix Lestrange.

“No!” he yelled, balling his hands into fists. “NOOOOO!”

“Come now, Harry,” she purred, leaning over him so he could see her cruel face. “That’s not what you were saying a moment ago. Please don’t stop,” she mocked in breathless tones, an innocent smile spreading across her face. 

He was on the table, her hand around his fully erect cock, pumping him slowly.  Pre-cum gathered at the tip, lubricating her hand, making it glide over the head, down the shaft and back up again, slowly, rhythmically.  God, it felt good. The lingering arousal from the dream still clouded his brain. Harry shook his head violently to clear it, and when that didn’t work, slammed the back of it against the table.

“Get off me!” he growled, trying to get control of the muscles in his back and legs which were straining against his will for more of the sensation she had given him.  His arse clenching, he arched off the table, trying to force himself further into her hand as she squeezed the head, pausing on the way back down again to run her thumb around the sensitive rim.

“Oh no, Potter, I don’t think so.  I have so many lessons left to teach you, and I’ve got all night.”

He hated her. God, he hated her, almost more than Voldemort.  Certainly right now she was at the very top of an ever-growing list.  He actually opened his hands, reaching for her, and if he could, he would have wrapped them around her throat, squeezing with all his might, watching the life drain out of her.  But he couldn’t touch her.  Instead, he fought with himself, waging a war of wills with his own body, trying to deny her everything he could. 

Harry tried to block out her voice, to ignore what her hands were doing.  He tried to calm his breathing, slow his pounding heart, and relax his muscles one by one.  It was like trying to employ Occlumency, but her teaching method in the art was far worse than any lesson Snape had ever made him endure.  He would gladly have welcomed a round of mind fucking with Snape right now over this. 

He wondered fleetingly if this was how she’d taught her nephew.  A disgusting image of Draco in his position, his own aunt fondling him, came to Harry’s mind.  It was working, though, he realized with relief, as he finally lay limp on the table, boneless.

Then suddenly she was on him, straddling him, and then he was inside her.  FUCK!  Her wet heat surrounded him, gripping him, her muscular thighs trapping his sides.  Her full breasts were swaying over him as she began to rock her hips into him in a steady rhythm, causing his body to inch up and down the table, the straps binding him to the table biting into his ankles.

Leaning back, her arms behind her, she gripped his thighs, her nails digging into his flesh as she continued to ride him. Her head was thrown back, pushing her breasts upwards, causing her hardened nipples to point towards the ceiling. Then she was raising herself off him a little, pulling up slightly and then slamming back down, her mouth open, a grunt escaping her on every downward stroke. 

She bounced on his swollen cock while rubbing herself vigorously, and it went on and on, until his ears rang, until his vision swam, and he broke out in a cold sweat all over his body.  When she was close, she gathered speed, slamming into him with more force, causing the breath to be forced out of him in painful gasps, his body so damaged from the last beating. 

Then Harry could see it coming over her.  Her whole body flushing with color, the muscles going tense in her thighs.  Her lips pulled back from her teeth.  Her face was straining, and then with a cry, she came, the muscles surrounding his throbbing cock clenching, and still he hung on, though he was aching, drenched with sweat, shaking from the effort, and almost deaf from the roaring in his ears.

“Mmmmmm,” she moaned, rolling her hips, rubbing herself in lazy circles as she came back down, her muscles still convulsing around him sporadically. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never been so hard in his life. His need was actually causing him pain, but he refused to let go because what he hated the most was that she was making him a participant in his own fucking rape!

She sat back up suddenly and laughed, her hands on his chest, her hair falling forward into his face as her warm breath blew across the scar and the sweat-dampened hair on his forehead.

“Well, well, little Harry, you’re better at this than I thought.  Who knew someone of your age and experience would have so much stamina.”

“Maybe you’re just a shit teacher,” Harry bit back through gritted teeth, though his body told a different story.  “Are you done yet?”

She faltered a moment, but quickly recovered.  “I’m just getting started,” she replied coldly, reaching around to fondle his aching balls. “Before I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to fuck you.” 

She squeezed, pulling the loose skin into her palm, digging her nails in the flesh.  Then she was rolling her hips again, and he could feel her squeezing her inner muscles around his engorged dick, making him groan involuntarily.

“Say you want me, Potter,” she ordered, breathlessly.

“No!”

“Tell me how much you need it.”

“No!” he ground out. 

Then she reached for her wand.  Harry flinched away from it instinctively.

“ _Imperio_ ,” she cried.

The most wonderful feeling came over Harry.  He didn’t know how much pain he’d been in until it was all wiped away.  He felt like he was floating, no thoughts in his head, no worries troubling him.

“Tell me you love it, Harry,” she commanded, her voice drifting over him as if from a dream.  “You don’t want me to stop, do you?  Tell me how good it feels. Please don’t stop,” she prompted.  “Say it!”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, his eyes focusing on her face. “Fuck You!” he spat, and in an instant, the spell was broken as he threw off the curse.

The pain crashed back into his body like the waves at high tide, seemingly worse after the momentary bliss when it had all been taken away.  Every inch of him ached, and his breathing was labored as if someone was pressing on his chest.  Harry knew he would pay for that remark, but he didn’t care. 

Her face registered surprise at first, then turned to fury, and Harry braced for what he knew was coming. He’d seen that look on his uncle’s face enough times to know what to expect for his insolence, and he wasn’t disappointed when the blow came.  Bellatrix backhanded him so hard across the cheek, it jerked his head to the side and caused him to bite his own tongue.

“ _Crucio_!” she shouted, and her fury was such that Harry couldn’t even scream. 

Sucking in great searing lung-fulls of air as his whole body was set on fire from within, Harry convulsed under her.  Blood from his tongue filled his mouth and lungs, and he was aspirating on it.  His eyes rolled in his head. Then everything went dark.

“ _ENVENARATE_!” she screamed, and Harry swam reluctantly back into consciousness.

“GODDAMMIT!” he roared.  He was so tired, and every muscle in his body was screaming.  He’d thought he had beaten her, but she would not be denied. 

Planting her hands on his chest, claws digging into his bruised flesh, Bellatrix rode him back to full hardness.  She ground into him relentlessly, no longer interested in her own pleasure, but hell bent on making him come, on winning this battle of wills.  Yet still he refused, though his body was begging for release. 

Then her hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard, her thumbs pressing painfully down on his Adam’s apple so that Harry saw stars as she constricted his breathing.  He knew it was over then.  He could feel himself poising for release, throbbing, the head of his cock expanding, and when he had nearly blacked out from the lack of oxygen, she released him, and he erupted inside her as the rush of fresh oxygen filled his searing lungs.  Shuddering, his whole body heaving, he arched up into her as he came. His arms strained to reach her, to hold her hips to him as his cock convulsed, shooting his seed into her in long streams.

Leave it to Bellatrix to find and exploit the one kink he didn’t even know he had until now:  autoerotic asphyxiation.  But she knew it now, and had complete control over him.  If she could bring him to arousal, she could make him come at will.  And she did so several more times during the long night until he had nothing left in him, until he physically could no longer hold an erection, either through her ministrations or by any artificial method like the full body bind, though not for lack of trying.  The _Petrificus Totalus_ spell did work the first time. 

When she finally left him in the morning, Harry felt raw, delirious from sleep deprivation, exhausted, his whole body begging to shut down for a while. 

~ . ~


	6. Snape

Snape walked briskly up the walk towards Malfoy Manor, his robes billowing behind him, trying to formulate a plan on getting Potter and his ignorant friends out of the dungeons.  He carried strengthening solution and polyjuice potion in one pocket of his robes, a small portkey in the other.  Besides that, he had no real plan for getting them out of this mess alive.  Most likely his carefully concealed duplicity would be exposed in the process. Years’ worth of work and sacrifice, of prostrating himself before the Dark Lord, of mastering Occlumency to fool even the greatest wizard of all time, lost to the idiocy of the foolish boy.

Sweeping up to the gates, he raised his left arm, passing through them as if they were water, and he took the steps two at a time.  He knew they had Potter; Lucius was beside himself with glee, gloating over their prize, inviting him to join them in their fun with the boy, knowing how much Snape hated him.

He’d used his duties at Hogwarts as an excuse until now, but the boy hadn’t managed to squeak out of this tight spot, and his time was quickly running out. Voldemort had been abroad, but would be returning tomorrow, and if Dumbledore’s portrait was to be believed, the hope of the whole Wizarding World would end if Potter wasn’t ready to face him.  And Dumbledore assured him that the boy wasn’t ready, though he wouldn’t explain how running and hiding for almost a year could have been preparing him.  Snape believed all the time in the world wouldn’t have prepared Potter to face the Dark Lord.  He was simply too powerful for a mediocre wizard like Potter to defeat, no matter how many ragtag friends he managed to gather around him, or throw in front of him.  He had more confidence, frankly, in Granger’s abilities, to be honest. 

Snape had been close to two of the most powerful wizards of all time, and Potter paled in comparison.  But here he was, betting his life now that one of those powerful wizards hadn’t been just a foolish old man out of his once-brilliant mind.

On days like this, he didn’t know which of the two wizards he despised more.  One seduced with power and ruled with fear. The other understood your deepest nature and manipulated with love. One had murdered the woman he loved. The other used her as a weapon against him.  Both of them had controlled him nearly all of his life.

Lucius met him at the door and escorted him across the threshold. “Severus, at last,” Lucius drawled. “You’ve almost waited too long.  I admit there isn’t much left of Mr. Potter, but I’m sure you’ll find something to entertain yourself.” 

“Indeed,” he replied as he was led down the hall, through the heavy wooden door and down the stairs into the basement dungeons.

They walked towards the door of one room. Avery was sitting in a chair outside it, cleaning the dirt from his fingernails with the tip of a small knife.  Getting to his feet as they approached, he pointed over his shoulder at the door with his knife.

“He’s in there, but Bella was with him all night, so I bet he ain’t feelin’ up to no visitors,” he told them, and then laughed sycophantically at his own joke. 

Snape merely stared down his hooked nose at him, and after a moment, the laughter dying away, Avery said, “Well, yeah, anyway, he’s in there,” and he opened the door with a quick, “ _Alohamora_.” 

The door swung inward with a creaking of hinges, but Snape did not immediately enter.

“Where are his friends?  Weasley and Granger?  Have you disposed of them already?”

“No,” Lucius replied with disgust, leaning in close to him and lowering his voice.  “Bella is saving them for something.  She’s completely mad, of course, but she’s got plans for Potter’s last day as a guest in my home.”

Snape raised his eyebrows.  “Interesting.  I’m sure that whatever the lovely Bellatrix has in mind doesn’t bode well for young Mr. Potter or his friends.”

Brushing past Avery, he stepped into the small room. He wasn’t prepared for the sight that met his eyes, but he let none of the shock show on his face.  Potter was chained to the wall in the far corner of the room.  He was totally nude, and his whole body was covered in blood and bruises, some fresh and some blackening with age. 

Snape gathered it all in with his trained eye.  Many of the innumerable wounds on his body were an angry red, inflamed with infection, it appeared.  Potter’s breathing was labored, and he suspected that one or more of the boy’s ribs were cracked or broken.  Hanging by his arms from the walls, every bone stood out on his emaciated frame.  All of that registered in an instant, and that was just what he could see on the outside.  There was no cataloging how much more damage had been done internally.

It had been nearly a year since he had last laid eyes on the boy, and it was clear to him now that he was a boy no longer.  He had certainly matured. A week’s worth of beard grew on his face, and the dark circles under his eyes had aged him prematurely.  His chest was mostly smooth, but black hair traveled in a straight line down from his navel to frame his full manhood, and Severus could understand what Bella had found to do with him all evening. 

He had to acknowledge that Potter was a fine specimen, thin but muscular before his capture.  Yet he was aware, too, the nature of many of his other Death Eater colleagues, and knew that Bella wasn’t the only one who would have taken pleasure with his form.

Many had wondered about his own leanings over the years, Snape knew, as he’d never been in the company of any other, man or woman. There was only one person in the world he had ever loved, and this boy was the reason she was now gone from him forever. That thought made his enmity for Potter burn through him.

Turning, he made to close the door behind him, giving himself some privacy to assess the situation, to formulate a plan, but Avery and Lucius followed him into the room, eager to watch what he had in store for the boy.  His loathing of Potter was legendary among the Death Eaters, after all. Or maybe it was to satisfy their lingering doubt about his true loyalty, for he knew he’d never been able to completely dispel the rumors about him circulating among them, many from Bellatrix herself.

What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now?  He was certainly able to take out both Avery and Lucius.  Lucius didn’t even have a wand for godsake, but he still held out hope that he could extract them all from this catastrophe with minimal damage to his position.  Sighing, he shut the door with a click and turned to face Potter, steeling himself for what was to come. 

Stepping close to the boy, Snape grasped his chin in his hand and forced his face up.  Potter’s hair was longer than it had been when he’d seen him last, but no less messy. With the stubble on his face and those damnable eyes closed, his resemblance to his father was uncanny.  The hatred for that man, so familiar to him, cultivated since childhood, washed over him, and for the first time in his life, he was glad for it. It would make this so much easier to do.

“Well, well, Potter,” he began in his smooth, cold voice, slapping his former student on the cheek.  “I can’t say I’m surprised to find you here like this.” 

The boy stirred, opening his eyes.  They were bloodshot from fatigue, and it seemed to magnify the intensity of the green.  Without the glasses, they were so much like Lily’s that Snape actually took a step back, releasing the boy’s chin, the breath catching in his chest. 

He had to glance away from them a moment, to break the spell. Recovering quickly, he went on, “I knew it was only a matter of time before you and your friends would find yourself back in the Dark Lord’s grasp.”

It took a moment for the boy’s eyes to focus on him, and Snape suspected that he might be delirious with fever, or possibly madness. Then he saw the recognition in them, and Potter actually snorted with laughter. 

“Oh, God, it’s you, Snape,” he croaked, his voice almost unrecognizable from damage. He sounded lethargic, his words slurring together. “And here I was thinking I was getting away without being mind-fucked by you.” He giggled again. “I did wish for you instead of her, though, so I guess it’s my own fault, but you’re too late, Professor.  I’m already all fucked out, or fucked up.”  His wheezy giggles turned to raspy coughs then, doubling him up.

Snape’s eyes did widen in surprise at that.  “Mind fucking?” he asked with distaste.  “Really, Potter, do you mean Legilimency?”

“Yeah that,” he replied with a flicking of his fingertips, as if to ward off an irksome fly. “But I’m done letting you take any more from me.” The madness drained from his face then, replaced by a blinding hatred that mirrored Snape’s own. “You killed Dumbledore,” Potter accused.  “And he saved you, you fucking coward!  You took him from me, just like you took my parents.  I know it was you who told Voldemort to go after them.  He killed them because of you!  You’ve taken everything from me!”

Snape’s vision went red, and he reached out and slapped Harry hard across the face. 

Coward was he?  Thief of the people Potter loved?  No. It was this boy who had stolen everything from him!

“I don’t think so, Potter,” he hissed.  “It is you who has taken everything. Your parents are dead because of you.  Dumbledore is dead because of you, Diggory, your mangy godfather, countless others, and now it seems you’ve gotten your friends killed, too.” Moving in close to the boy, he jabbed at his chest, punctuating every accusation. “It is _your_ carelessness, Potter, _your_ selfishness, _your_ C-O-W-A-R-D-I-C-E that has caused this.”

It was as if he had struck the boy again as Harry reeled backwards, shock registering on his face at Snape’s words.

“That’s right,” he said with satisfaction.  “If you want to wound with words, Potter, you’re out of your league.”

“FUCK YOU!” Harry shouted, and with surprising quickness he kicked out at Snape. Grasping the chains supporting him, both heels hit Severus in the gut, catching him unawares. The impact sent him flying backwards to land on his back in the dirt, the breath whooshing out of him.

Jumping back to his feet, white with fury, Snape started forward again, intent on doing as much damage as possible, but he was forced backwards again by a shield charm erupting around Potter.  Standing momentarily stunned, he stared at the boy whose lips were pulled back in a snarl.  He was impressed in spite of himself.

Potter should not have been capable of this type of magic.  Not in his condition, not without a wand.  He thought that perhaps Dumbledore might have been hiding more about the boy than he imagined.  More than just where they went on their little excursions from Hogwarts, more than what Potter and his friends were up to while the wizarding world waited for their _Chosen One_. 

It was clear that he was becoming a powerful wizard.  Still, it would come to nothing if he couldn’t get him out of here. The shield was already wavering.  He didn’t know if Potter was even aware that he’d cast it.

Then Avery was beside him, intent on aiding him, it appeared.

“I do not require your assistance Avery,” he said bitingly as he tried to adjust his cloak, which had become tangled around him from the fall.  His pocket was damp. He knew that at least one of the potion bottles had broken, and he was furious with the boy again.

“Impressive Potter,” he sneered, “very impressive." With a wave of his wand, the shield collapsed. “It seems you’ve done more than merely hide from the Dark Lord all this time,” he remarked as he approached. “It appears you’ve benefitted from Ms. Granger’s careful tutelage.  She may be a Mudblood, but I’ll admit that she is a very clever girl.  Of that, there is no question.”

They were face to face now. 

“Tell me, Potter, what have you and your friends been up to?” he asked on a whisper. Then his curiosity got the better of him, the need to have all of Dumbledore’s secrets with the boy revealed to him, to understand the plans that Dumbledore did not think him trustworthy enough to be privy.

“ _Legilimens_!” he cried, and he was in before Potter could put up any resistance.

Images were coming at him quickly, of Potter and Dumbledore in the Headmaster’s office, the Pensieve on the desk between them, of the two of them on a cliff at the ocean’s edge.  He could feel Potter resisting now, yelling, and he pushed forward. They were getting near it now, it seemed. 

They were in a dark cave, in the middle of a black lake filled with Inferi, and Potter was feeding goblets of some potion to the headmaster from a large stone basin. Then they were surrounded by fire in a small boat, then in Hogsmeade, looking up at Hogwarts castle, the Dark Mark in the sky, Dumbledore barely able to support himself, and Snape knew what he would see next. He tried to pull away from those memories, but Potter was not resisting him now.  Now he was feeding the images to him, directing the flow, and he did see. 

He saw them at the top of the tower, watched as Dumbledore was disarmed and Potter was immobilized.  Watched from Potter’s eyes as Draco lowered his wand, and then watched as he himself cast the curse he’d been forced to cast by Dumbledore.  He saw the hatred in his own eyes and it unnerved him.

Snape attempted to break the spell, but Potter would not let go. He saw through the eyes of a child in a crib, his beloved Lily begging for the life of her child before being struck down without mercy.  Then he saw Voldemort pointing a wand at his face, the green light rushing from it, blinding him. 

His head throbbed in pain as he fought with Potter. Then the boy began flinging his own thoughts back at him now. Thoughts the boy had stolen from the Pensieve in his dungeon office.  Scenes from his own wretched childhood, of humiliations suffered at the hands of James Potter and his friends. 

He struck out, catching Potter below the left eye, splitting the skin open with his fist, and breaking the spell. Staggering backwards, apoplectic with rage now, he was blinded by fury at Potter’s enjoyment of the humiliation he had suffered.  But he would not be humiliated anymore!  Not by this boy, not by his father, nor any of his father’s friends.  It was his turn to humiliate, his turn to exact revenge. 

He was not aware of releasing Potter from his bonds.  Unaware of them struggling, grappling with each other so that he had Potter pinned against the wall, grasping him by the throat, his wand pointing in the boy’s hated face. 

For the first time in his life he understood his obsession with this child.  He was the embodiment of everything Snape despised and yet loved.  The eyes of the woman he could not forget, whom he had loved so intensely from the moment he first saw her as a child, packaged in the face of the man who had stolen her from him.  Potter was the physical manifestation of Lily’s rejection, her choice that stared back at him with her eyes from the potions classroom, from the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, staring at him now, and he found himself physically aroused by both his lust for her and his animosity for him.

“Get on your knees, Potter,” he bellowed, though they were only inches apart, both of them breathing heavily.

“Go to Hell!” shouted Harry, struggling again to throw Snape off him.

“You will obey me, Potter, for once in your miserable life.  Get on your knees!”

He was forcing him down. Harry’s knees buckled under the weight, his back scraping down the rough stone wall, too weak to resist the larger, stronger man, exhausted from the effort.

Snape was beyond comprehending what he was doing or saying, focused only on dominating this boy, making him burn with humiliation.  The same humiliation he had felt in front of her all those years ago at the hands of his father, in front of the whole school. 

Fumbling with his robes, Snape freed himself from the confines of his trousers.  He felt a rush of heat pooling in his gut from the horror and disgust he saw on Potter’s face when he understood what Snape intended.

“Too long I have let your insolence slide, boy. Too long I have suffered your cheek.  I managed to teach you nothing in our time together at Hogwarts, but this is a lesson you will learn today, Potter.”

“NO!” Harry shouted, struggling furiously to push Snape away from him.

“No?  Perhaps we should fetch that insufferable know-it-all Granger then?  She’s a very quick learner.  I’m sure once I’ve taught her, she can demonstrate the proper technique for you on Lucius, or Avery here.” 

His words seemed to have no affect as Harry continued to struggle.

“Avery! Bring the Mudblood,” Snape commanded, watching Harry’s face fill with sudden fear.

“No!” Harry yelled, before Avery had even taken a single step towards the door.

His shoulders sagged, his hands falling from Snape’s legs, surrendering.

“You’re a true Gryffindor, Potter,” he sneered, stepping in close again, seizing the boy by the hair and positioning himself in front of him. 

“I’ll pull every tooth out of your head one by one if you even think of biting me,” he snarled, and they were frozen like that for a moment. 

Then slowly, those green eyes on him, Harry opened his mouth.

~ . ~

 


	7. Patronuses and Portkeys

Harry’s head throbbed in pain as he stared up at Snape. It always did after Occlumency lessons with him, but this time, he thought with satisfaction, he’d given as well as he got. Let the bastard see what it feels like for a change.

He could feel his eye swelling from the blow Snape had delivered to it.  He felt dizzy, and lights winked in and out of his vision.

Gripping the hair on the top of his head painfully, Snape shook him a little as he snarled, “I’ll pull every tooth out of your head one by one if you even think of biting me.” 

Harry stared up at him, mortified at what Snape expected him to do, burning with humiliation, but he couldn’t refuse.  The threat to Hermione was all too real. He shuddered to think of her in here with him; of having to watch them violate her, helpless to stop it.  Knowing what they’d done to him, picturing her in his place … it was enough to drive him mad.  He was loath to comply, but he had no choice.  Harry would not allow his friends to suffer.  Not if it was in his power to stop it.   

Taking a resigned breath, Harry slowly opened his mouth. Snape immediately pressed his hips forward, and Harry’s hands came up automatically to ward him off again. Pushing on his assailant’s thighs, he played for more time, but Snape was eager, insistent. He jerked Harry by the hair again, causing more stars to erupt in his vision. 

Closing his eyes, Harry’s nostrils filled with the smell of his former Professor, both musky and spicy like the potions ingredients he handled.  Then Harry felt the head of Snape’s cock bump against his chin. He shuddered with revulsion, but opened his mouth wider, wanting desperately for this to be over. 

Snape corrected his angle for a second attempt.  He didn’t miss this time, sliding his throbbing cock into Harry’s waiting mouth and hitting the back of his throat. A wave of panic rolled over Harry, and he choked.  He tried to jerk his head away, but Snape held him firm.  Pulling back again swiftly, Snape slid in again with a groan, his balls slapping against Harry’s chin. 

Harry couldn’t breathe.  Pushing against Snape’s thighs, his hips, he tried to slow the assault as every thrust cut off his air supply and caused the back of his head to bang against the stone wall. Snape was punishing him now, angry with his resistance, pushing in harder, faster.

Gagging on every powerful stroke, his eyes tearing, Harry coughed and retched every time he could draw breath as he struggled, and failed to pull away, to fight off his attacker. 

Finally, in desperation, he grasped Snape’s shaft in his fist and wrapped his lips around his pulsing member, attempting to control the speed and depth of his thrusts.  He pressed his tongue against the intruding head to stop it stabbing into the back of his throat.  Above him, Snape growled in approval.  Harry breathed through his nose, grateful for the reprieve as Snape slowed his relentless assault on his mouth. 

It seemed a lot less messy when Bellatrix had done this to him that first time, he thought as his eyes streamed, his nose ran, and spit pooled in his mouth and dribbled down his chin, when he attempted to swallow.  So Harry decided to try and mimic her actions.  Squeezing his fist around Snape’s shaft so that every time he pulled back, the skin, slick with Harry’s saliva, slid through his fingers all the way to the head and then back down again when he pushed back in.  Here, at least, he had some experience.  He’d wanked enough times to know what felt good, to him anyway. 

“Nnnnnggggg,” Snape growled, gripping Harry’s hair still more firmly.

Snape was fucking his mouth in long, slow strokes now that Harry was no longer resisting him. Sliding almost completely out so only his lips were pressed against the tip, his fist squeezing the head, and then back in slowly as Snape’s whole body shuddered.  He was gratefully letting Harry’s hand do most of the work now, and Snape grunted in pleasure every time he thrust into Harry’s waiting mouth.

Then Snape switched tempo again, changed stances.  He was no longer pumping into Harry, but standing stock still, the muscles in his thighs bunching, and Harry thought fleetingly that it was almost over. But then he began pulling Harry slowly down his shaft by the hand still wound in his hair. 

Harry braced the hand fisting his cock.  Holding it at its base, he circled it with finger and thumb with the other fingers splayed across the man’s lower abdomen while Snape dragged him forward and backward by the head. 

Attempting to relax the muscles in his throat to keep from gagging, he allowed Snape to slide him all the way down so that his face was buried in the hair at the base of his cock. Harry was unable to breathe again with Snape all the way down his throat, and he convulsed around him a moment, trying not to panic, before Snape pulled him back.

“My, God, Potter,” Snape growled, panting, dragging him slowly down again. “I believe we’ve found something you’re a natural at.”

Harry could hear Lucius and Avery laughing, making him burn with shame. But if they were in his position, he thought, trying desperately not to be suffocated, he’d like to see what they’d do.

Absurdly, he thought of the headline that would appear in tomorrow’s Daily Prophet if he were to strangle on Snape’s cock.  In bold black lettering: “ _Chosen One Chokes_.”  He could see in his mind’s eye Rita Skeeter, her vile acid green quick quotes quill positively smoking on the parchment as she rushed to get out her next best seller.  He imagined the book with green lettering, his picture from the Tri-Wizard tournament smiling out from the cover.  The unauthorized biography of his short tragic life, full of salacious lies about him. Telling the whole wizarding world what they’d done to him. Good lord, he was going insane.

“Look at me, Potter,” Snape commanded.

Harry obeyed, staring up into those hated black eyes.  Watching as Snape sucked in a shuddering breath and then began pumping into his mouth again with quick rapid thrusts, never breaking eye contact. 

Curling his lips under, Harry wrapped them around his teeth, biting down on Snape’s engorged cock.  Snape was groaning again, deep in his throat, and Harry knew he was getting close now. 

 _Come on, you bastard!_ he thought desperately.

Releasing the death grip on his hair finally, Snape pressed his palm over Harry’s scar, pushing his head back against the wall, bracing him there as he continued to drive into his mouth, and still he held eye contact.  Then he was in Harry’s mind again, and images were rushing over him. Visions of his mother as a young child on the playground swing, her hair fanning out behind her.  Glancing at him across the Great Hall with an apologetic little smile on her lips, sitting in the halls of Hogwarts, laughing with a group of girlfriends, smiling at him over a cauldron in the potions classroom, and then at the lake edge, teary eyed. 

Snape squeezed his eyes shut, breaking the spell. Then, throwing his head back, he came with a roar. Harry tried to pull away, revolted as hot come squirted into his mouth, coating his throat anew with every contraction.  Caught unprepared, he’d been bewildered by the unexpected images he’d seen.  But he had nowhere to go, and Snape would not release him until he’d emptied himself into Harry’s mouth.

Finally, Snape stepped back from him. Panting hard, he tucked his spent member back into his pants while Harry dropped onto all fours, hocking up great mouthfuls of the bitter fluid and spitting it on the ground, trying to get it all out.

“My, God, Severus,” Lucius said with awe in his voice, breathless with excitement. “But that was brilliant!”

“Get out!” Snape spat with sudden venom, still breathing hard.  “I am not finished with Potter, and I would like a little more privacy, if you please.  I’ve done all I intend to do with an audience.”

“Of course, Severus, of course,” Lucius placated, clearly surprised by Snape’s angry outburst. He hurried out with Avery behind him, who was smiling at the renewed horror he’d seen on Harry’s face at Snape’s words. 

Snape slammed the door behind them, turning quickly to Harry, who was back on his feet again, swaying unsteadily.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he bellowed, his lips feeling weirdly numb from the muscle strain they’d just endured, his head throbbing in pain.

“Shut up, Potter,” Snape hissed.  Swiftly locking the door, he cast a Muffliato spell, and then started back towards Harry.  

Harry was wild again with panic, screaming with rage, striking out blindly until Snape had him pinned against the wall once more, growling in his ear.

“Potter, Stop!  I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Harry laughed out loud. “Yeah, I just bet you’re not.”

“Stop fighting me!  I’m trying to get you out of here.”

Harry continued to struggle, though he couldn’t throw off the larger man.

“You are injuring yourself further!” Snape snarled, and then finally he shouted, “HARRY!”

Completely surprised by Snape’s use of his first name, Harry did stop then. They stood like that, pressed against each other for a moment, breathing hard. Then Snape relaxed his hold and stepped back.  Harry swayed on the spot. Snape reached out a hand to steady him, but Harry flinched away from him, batting at his hands weakly as he staggered into the corner.

“What are you playing at, Snape?” he asked, breathless, holding his aching head with his hands.

“I assure you, this is no game. The Dark Lord returns tomorrow, and if you intend to see the dawning of the next, you will do as I say.” He was fumbling in the pockets of his robes, cursing under his breath while Harry merely stared at him.

“I don’t trust you, Snape.  I’m not as foolish as Dumbledore was about you.  I know who you are.”

“You know nothing, Potter,” he spat, now pacing around the room, muttering obscenities. 

Harry’s head ached. His body screamed with fatigue. Pushed past endurance, he couldn’t think straight.  He didn’t understand what was happening, what Snape was up to, but he resolved not to fall for any of it.

Marching back up to him, Snape held a small bottle cap out to him.  Harry simply stared at it.

“Take it, Potter. It’s a Portkey. Press it, and five seconds later it will transport you to the Hogwarts Infirmary.  There is no other way out of here now, I’m afraid. You are in no condition to leave here under your own power, and I no longer have a hope of getting us out undetected.”

“No,” Harry responded, refusing to take the object.  “I bet it takes me straight to Voldemort.  Been there, done that.  No thanks.”

“We do not have time for this, Potter.  Take it!” Snape insisted, thrusting it at him again.

“No,” Harry refused again, pushing his hand away.  “I don’t believe you.  You’re lying!” He pointed an accusing finger at Snape. “I don’t know why, but you’re lying.”  And then indignantly, “You killed Dumbledore… you tried to kill George, and you just… WHAT YOU JUST DID TO ME!”

Snape growled in frustration, whipped out his wand and yelled, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” as Harry ducked against the wall. 

A silvery doe burst from the tip, landing silently on the dirt floor. Her glowing radiance seemed to take up all the space in the small room. Harry squinted at her brilliance. Dumbstruck, he watched as she turned her beautiful head towards him for a moment and then vanished.

“It was you?” He asked in disbelief.

“I swear to you, Potter, I am not trying to trick you.  You need to do as I say. We are out of time.”

Harry didn’t know what to think.  There was no way that Snape could have known about the doe that led him to the sword.  His brain ached.  None of this made any sense to him. He stood there for several minutes, trying to puzzle out what Snape’s motivation could possibly be.

“I won’t leave without Ron and Hermione,” he replied at last.  “I can’t leave them here.”

Snape stared hard at him for a few moments, then spoke, “They’re already dead, Potter.”

Harry gaped at him, struck dumb, unable even to form words.  Hearing Snape’s horrible declaration again and again in his ears like an echo, he tried to comprehend it. _They’re dead, Potter… they’re already dead_.  It was his absolute worst possible fear. His knees suddenly buckled under him.

“No,” he moaned, quaking with fear.  “That’s not true.  You… you threatened to bring Hermione in here,” he argued desperately. “She can’t be dead. YOU’RE LYING!”

“There is nothing you can do for them anymore, Potter,” he snapped, angry again.  “You must come with me.”

“No,” he said in denial, shaking his head.  “No.” 

Tears rolled down his cheeks as his face screwed up in misery while images of their lifeless bodies, chained to the walls, rushed over him. He thought of Hermione’s parents living out their lives in Australia as Wendell and Monica Wilkins, believing they had no children, never remembering their daughter, not knowing her fate.  Then of Mrs. Weasley, crying over her dead children in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place as the Boggart transformed into each of them in turn. _Crack_ , dead Ron _crack_ , dead twins, _crack_ , dead Harry, and Bill’s scarred face from Greyback, and George’s missing ear, and all of it his fault. 

“Even if they are… even if… I can’t leave them,” he choked. “I won’t leave them here, not like Mad Eye. I have to take them back.”

Snape cursed loudly. “Damn you, boy, we are all going to die here!”

“I don’t care,” Harry cried.  “I think I might already be dead because this _is_ hell.”

Snape stared at him for long moments while Harry knelt there in shock, refusing to budge.  Seeming to come to a decision, he stepped close to Harry, pointing his wand. Harry thought he was going to Stupefy him, but he rapped him hard on the top of his head, instead.  Harry felt the cracked egg sensation spreading over him as the Disillusionment charm took effect, rendering him nearly invisible.

“Get up, Potter, and stay close to me,” he ordered as he held out his hand, palm up again. “And take this portkey!”

Harry stared at it for a full minute, and then slowly, he complied. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he scooped the bottle cap out of Snape’s hand. Looking relieved, Snape turned to the door. Harry staggered blindly behind him.

“Do not make a sound, Potter,” he warned him, but Harry had never needed his advice less.

“ _Alohamora_ ,” he whispered. The heavy wooden door clicked open, swinging inwards with a creaking of hinges. Snape stepped out into the corridor. “Which direction are they?” he hissed. 

Harry pointed before realizing that Snape couldn’t see him.

“Left,” he whispered back.

Yet they had taken only a few steps in that direction when heavy footfalls could be heard on the stairs behind them.  They both wheeled around as Bellatrix came into view, followed by several other Death Eaters. Harry went cold all over with dread at the sight of her. Snape straightened up and stepped forward, shielding Harry behind him.

“Snape,” she called, sounding surprised. “Why, Lucius was just telling me you were here.” Her eyes traveled to the door they had just exited, that they had foolishly left open, and then slowly back to Snape. She took a step closer, speaking quietly. “I’m glad to see you’ve finished with him.  I have plans for Potter today, you see.”

Snape didn’t reply.  They stared at each other for a moment, and then Harry watched as they both raised their wands at the same time, mirroring each other.

Harry ducked down instinctively as Bellatrix screamed, “ _STUPEFY_!” at the same time as Snape yelled, “ _REDUCTO_!”

Their spells collided in midair. Then they were dueling madly.

Spells flew everywhere as others joined the fray. The corridor was alight with streaks of colors, of people screaming incantations, with the crackling of electricity and splintering of wood.  They ricocheted off the walls, blowing craters in the dirt floor at Harry’s feet as they missed their target or were deflected.  The noise was deafening, the air thick with dust and smoke while Snape fought for his life, greatly outnumbered as more Death Eaters seemed to be streaming down the stairs, stepping over their fallen comrades, taking up the fight.

“PRESS THE PORTKEY!” he bellowed at Harry.

The moment he took to say that, cost him his concentration. He went down in a heap at Harry’s feet as three jets of red light crashed into him.

Numbly, Harry stared at his limp form for a moment. Then he pressed the Portkey.  Hesitating for a second, he knelt down and placed it into Snape’s palm, curling his fingers around it.  He would not leave without Ron and Hermione.  

In another second Snape's fist glowed blue as the portkey activated. Harry heard Bellatrix scream as Snape was jerked out of his grasp, speeding him back to Hogwarts, leaving Harry behind in his own version of hell.

~ . ~

 


	8. Flight of the Phoenix

Harry sank to his knees and sat there motionless, still in shock from all that had transpired. His fevered brain was incapable of coming to grips with what Snape had done, or what he had done for Snape, after everything there was between them.

It only took seconds for the Death Eaters to stumble over him as they rushed to the spot where Snape had vanished a moment before. Harry was unable to even formulate a plan before they were upon him.

“We’ve got him!” one of them yelled excitedly. “He’s right here!”  Grabbing him by the shoulder, the Death Eater’s fingers dug into the flesh painfully tightly as if afraid Harry might vanish next. Then a hard rap to the top of his head and the spell was undone.

Bellatrix stared at him in surprise for a moment, and then walked towards him slowly, cocking her head to the side as she considered him. 

_Good luck with that one_ , Harry thought miserably. _I don’t know why I did it either_. 

As if she’d heard his thoughts, she threw back her head and laughed in delight. “Oh, Potter,” she said gleefully. “But you are full of surprises!”

Reaching down, she caressed his face.  Harry let her do it.  The fight had gone completely out of him. So physically and mentally traumatized, so filled with grief, he no longer cared what they did to him here.  Not anymore.

He’d stayed behind.  Voluntarily given himself up for the second time.  He knew it was suicide, but there was no thought of escaping if Ron and Hermione weren’t going with him.  Even if they weren’t coming out of here alive, he was taking them home or he would die here alongside them.

He was pulled roughly to his feet, but he felt as if he were floating.  As his arms were chained behind his back, he staggered into one of his captors.  The room was spinning.  Harry was leaning heavily on someone now, drained, unable to support his own weight.  Whoever it was had their arm around his waist, and his head was lying on their shoulder, looking for all the world like friends, or maybe lovers.  People were talking around him, to him, but he didn’t understand the words.  He was so tired.

Then they were walking, Harry still being almost completely supported, his feet dragging in the dirt. The arm around his waist pulled him forward.  He was not the least bit interested in where they might be going or what they had in store for him when they got there.  What more could they do to him?

They came to a halt in front of the heavy wooden door. Harry assumed they were entering the torture room again, but as they crossed the threshold, he heard more yelling. Voices that were as familiar to him as his own, though he hadn’t heard them for so long, were screaming, crying. 

Harry went limp with shock when he saw them.  Ron and Hermione, still very much alive, shouting their relief, their fear.  It was like phoenix song to his ears, and his heart ached at the sight of them.  He’d thought he’d lost them. He’d foolishly believed Snape’s lies, and now they were here, returned to him.

Dropped in the middle of the room, he simply sat on his knees, staring at Ron and Hermione, drinking them in. 

_Snape!_ He thought viciously, _He was such a fucking Slytherin!_   He would have left Ron and Hermione here to die!  Harry wished like hell now that he’d left the greasy bastard stunned on the floor, left him here to die.  He might have been able to conceal the portkey and somehow manage to free Ron and Hermione, to transport them all out of here.  Instead he’d used it on Snape. He felt like an idiot, furious with himself, and with Snape.

“Well, Harry,” Bellatrix was saying. “I thought Severus had ruined all our fun, but you just keep coming back for more, don’t you?” She stood near him, running her hand through his dirt matted, sweat damp hair, stroking him like a beloved pet. “I believe we have time for a few more games before the Dark Lord returns.  Would you like to play?” she asked as she strolled around him, twirling a lock of his hair between her fingers.

Harry didn’t reply. Still gazing at Ron and Hermione, he only barely registering that Bellatrix was even speaking to him at all.

“No?  Well, maybe we’ll play with your little friends here then.  I bet the mudblood and the blood traitor would love to play with us.  They must be quite bored from standing around in here for so long, don’t you think?”

Harry blinked, her words sinking in as he glanced around.  At least five other Death Eaters besides Bellatrix were in the room, Macnair and Greyback among them.  Rudolphus stood nearest Ron, and Harry went cold all over with fear. Harry knew the type of games he thought they’d like to play with Ron and Hermione, and it terrified him.

“Don’t hurt them,” he begged, his voice shaking with fear. “Please.  I’ll do anything you want.  Just let them go.”

“Oh, Potter,” she said with a laugh. “You make this sooooo easy.”

“You don’t need them,” he tried, desperate to reason with her. “I’ll stay.  I… I won’t try to leave, just like with Snape.  I promise.” He knew it was no good, knew that he had nothing to bargain with, but he couldn’t stop himself trying. “Just let them go,” he pleaded.

“Oh, no, Harry, I wouldn’t dream of allowing them to depart without giving them the chance to repay us for our hospitality.  That would be rude.”  She laughed again. The others joined in. 

He was feeling panic at her words, at what she would do to them.  Oh, God! They were going to rape and torture his friends to death or into insanity in front of him. He could do nothing to stop it.

“I think,” she continued slowly, deliberately, her finger on her lips as she looked between Ron and Hermione thoughtfully.  “First, I’d like you to show the blood traitor here what you’ve learned in our lessons together, Harry.  You can demonstrate on the girl.”

It took him a minute to absorb her meaning, his mind still flying in all directions. _Their lessons… lessons_ … and then the images of the long night with her in the torture room played in his head. His mouth fell open in horror.

“Oh, God, Nooooo!” he moaned. Horrified, he was shaking his head in disbelief, his voice barely a whisper. “No. You can do whatever you want to me, please.”

“I know I can,” she purred, smiling down at him.  “And what I want is for you to entertain me.”

“I will… I will… Just you and me, okay?” he pleaded.

“ _Crucio_!” she yelled in answer.

Harry jerked away from her automatically, but it wasn’t him in pain. It was Ron.  Ron who was screaming with his voice echoing off the walls, Ron who was thrashing against the chains binding him, his face contorted in agony.

“NOOOO!” Harry wailed, struggling, trying to get to his feet.  “NO, STOP!”

Bellatrix lifted the curse.  Ron hung limply from the wrists, shaking all over, curling into himself, and sobbing.  Hermione was crying, too, and Harry didn’t know it, but tears were also rolling down his cheeks.

“Look, let’s just end this.  Just call Voldemort, okay?” Harry was desperate, completely out of options. “Just, JUST PRESS YOUR FUCKING MARK!” he screamed.

Bellatrix struck him hard across the face, sending him crashing into the dirt.

“How dare you use the Dark Lord’s name, boy!” she spat, madness in her eyes as she looked down at him.

“I can’t do it,” he told her miserably from the floor.  “I can’t.”

“Greyback,” she called suddenly.

Harry watched in horror as Greyback moved close to Hermione. Lifting a handful of her hair to his nose, he sniffed and then grinned at her hungrily with his razor sharp teeth before licking his lips. Hermione jerked away from him with a cry of terror. 

“None of the other Death Eaters will touch the Mudblood but Greyback here,” she informed Harry, turning back to him.  “He’s volunteered to break her in.  I daresay we’ll get a chance to see how dirty her blood really is, Harry.  What do you think?”

Harry was numb with fear, his mind racing with terrible images of Greyback brutalizing Hermione, forced to watch helplessly as the Werewolf savaged her. The thought made him physically ill.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” Ron screamed, struggling furiously with his bonds, and he was hit with the Cruciatus curse again, cast by Rudolphus this time. 

Harry was frantic, shaking all over. “Okay, okay,” he begged. “Stop!”

The curse was lifted off Ron once again at his pleading. 

“Please stop hurting them.”

“Then do it, Harry. Show me what you’ve learned, or Greyback will do it for you.  Then, perhaps we can whore your other little friend out to Rudolphus.  He does love a fighter, and with that ginger hair of his, I bet the blood traitor’s got a real temper on him.”

Harry glared at Bellatrix, his hatred for her boiling over. “I swear to God! I will kill you,” he growled.

She smiled widely as several others laughed. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that.”

Harry sat there on his knees in the dirt, his head down, his shoulders slumped in defeat while everyone in the room watched him, and waited.

“I can’t do it,” he finally admitted dejectedly.

“Greyback!”

“NO!  I mean I physically can’t do it,” he snarled.

“Oh, don’t worry, Harry,” she replied with a mad cackle, removing a small flask from the pockets of her robes. “I’ve brought something for that.”

Harry stared at the glass phial in alarm, unsure what it contained, knowing it was nothing good.

“Please don’t make me do this,” he whispered as she removed the cork stopper and bluish smoke billowed over the top.  But she was pitiless, his captor unmerciful.  His pleading had fallen onto deaf ears. 

She approached him again, and Harry closed his mouth firmly.

“Open up, Harry,” she cooed, but he refused, and then someone jerked his head back by the hair. 

Harry struggled, but it was no use, and soon they had his mouth pried open, and she poured the contents down his throat.  He tried to spit it out, but they held his mouth closed and pinched his nose so that he was forced to swallow.  He coughed as it went down.  It was mildly peppery, and he thought stupidly that she’d given him a dose of Pepper-up potion for a moment.

It burned as it travelled down his throat and into his stomach, and then he felt heat radiating out through his limbs.  Beads of sweat broke out over his forehead, his heart beat rapidly in his chest, and he became light-headed as all the blood rushed from it, pooling in his groin.  Harry was mortified as his cock swelled and hardened painfully, engorged with blood.  He erupted in goose bumps as all the hairs on his body seemed to stand on end. Every one of them felt like an exposed nerve.  His vision darkened as his pupils dilated, so that the green was almost entirely engulfed in black.

He was left panting now with arousal, the potion so effective on his damaged body. Quivering with need, still on his knees in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor with his arms still shackled behind his back, Harry groaned trying to fight against his body’s response.  He kept blinking trying to clear his head, trying to get control of his mind and his body, but he couldn’t throw off the potent effects of the potion.

“Up you get now, Harry,” she said.

He was pulled roughly to his feet, his arousal heavy between his legs. 

It took him a minute to steady himself as his head swam and the room spun.  Then Bellatrix was next to him, running her hands over his shoulders, across his nipples which hardened at her touch, and then down his belly.  Her breath ghosted over his sensitized skin, and his nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath of anticipation.  But she removed her hands from his stomach before they traveled further, and his cock jerked impatiently, begging for attention.  She smiled at his eagerness, satisfied with the potions effects.

His desire and hatred for her was so great at this moment that he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat.  He wanted her body under him, here on the dirt floor.  He wanted to fuck her while her eyes bulged as she fought to breath, to come inside her while she was in the throes of death.  The image was so clear in his mind that his cock jumped again, his whole body shaking in both excitement and terror.  He knew some of it was the potion, but his own bloodlust surprised him, sickened him.  They were turning him into something he didn’t even recognize anymore.

Harry was lead forward to stand in front of Hermione, every movement causing his cock to bounce or brush against his thigh and an explosion of stars to erupt in his vision.  Staring at Hermione, he tried to get himself under control. His hatred bled out of him at the sight of her, terrified in front of him. The part of himself he still recognized ached to comfort her. 

Then his arms were released suddenly from their bonds. Harry thought to turn on Bellatrix, the consequences be damned, but at the same moment, Hermione shrieked. With another flick of her wand, Bellatrix had stripped away her clothing, leaving her bare, exposed.  The Death Eaters were laughing again as Harry rushed to cover her, to shield her with his own naked body.

“Do it, Harry,” Bellatrix warned, her wand on him. 

Glaring at her, Harry clenched his fists, and then slowly turned back to Hermione.  She was making frightened little mewling noises in her throat, like muted whimpers, and it caused a frenzy of desire in him.

Stepping in close to Hermione, he pressed his forehead to hers, staring into her eyes which were filled with fear. Tears leaked out the sides and down her cheeks, but he was beyond crying now.  He felt like he was actually breaking apart as he stared at her. 

She was the person closest to him in the world.  The one who stayed with him after Ron had left that terrible night in the tent, deserting him for the second time in his life.  Hermione had never abandoned him.  She was more than a sister to him, more than a friend.  She was the voice of his conscience, his confidant, his partner, and on more than one occasion, his savior.  She had always followed him, and this was where he had led her.

He brushed his lips softly over hers. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered against them as he placed his hand behind her knee and pulled her leg up. Bracing her thigh against his hip, he pushed her back against the wall.

Hermione burst into tears. 

Ron was screaming again, not from the Cruciatus curse, Harry knew, but from the betrayal he was witnessing.  The very thing the piece of Voldemort’s soul from the locket had shown him, his worst fear; Harry and Hermione together like this, but in a way even the Horcrux couldn’t have conceived to torment Ron.  Harry knew this was devastating him, knew that Ron would never forgive him for this vile act, and he felt more pieces of himself crumbling apart.

Squeezing his eyes shut; his forehead still pressed against hers, Harry leaned into her so that the head of his swollen cock was brushing against her. _Lubricus_ , he thought desperately, for he did not want to hurt her, and he heard her gasp of surprise.  The sound washed over him, his lust for her, artificially induced, but no less real, causing him to growl in the back of his throat.

He pinned her to the wall with his body, one hand still gripping her thigh tightly while with the other he fumbled to position himself at her opening.  He was shaking with need as he slid the weeping head of his cock across her slit, forward and then backward, opening her to him, moistening her folds and lubricating the way.  Then he pressed his hips forward, breaching her, his body screaming its approval.

“No.” she sobbed with every fearful breath.

He could feel her heart beating erratically against his own chest.  Sucking in his breath, Harry held it while he pushed forward, penetrating her. Hermione went stiff all over, resisting him, fighting against the invasion. 

She was so incredibly tight around him as he inched slowly into her, that it was actually painful.  It felt like he was peeling open inside her. Then he pressed against something, like a membrane or barrier of some sort, and he stopped, blowing out the breath he was still holding.

Releasing the grip he had on himself, he placed his forearm on the stone wall, his hand next to her head. Touching her face, he felt the tears on her cheeks as she begged him with her eyes, still nose to nose with him.  He stood like that for a moment, panting now, trying to hold himself back, his legs straining with the effort to keep from thrusting into her. 

Harry knew he was hurting her, knew she had never done this before, knew he was taking something precious from her, but he couldn’t stop now. He was so completely in the grip of the powerful potion, so blind with lust, that it was taking a supreme effort not to rut wildly against her.

Pulling back slightly and feeling some relief to himself, he squeezed his eyes shut again, wanting the pain of this to be quick. His body was begging him to hurry, but he ignored it.  Lifting his head from hers, he leaned into her hair, below her ear inhaling her scent, along her neck, and out across her collar bone.  Then he pressed his lips against her bare shoulder and quickly bit down, hard. 

She jerked in surprise, giving a small gasp of pain and relaxing her stiffened muscles for a fraction of a second, which was all Harry needed. Taking advantage of the moment, Harry gave a powerful thrust and pushed all the way into her swiftly, burying himself inside her as she cried out in renewed pain and shock.

Then he did cry. 

Ron was hysterical, incoherent with rage, screaming obscenities at him, and Hermione was sobbing again, too. Tears slid from his eyes, down his nose as Harry stood there, fully encased by her warm, firm heat, trying to let her body adjust around him, to recover from the shock while he gritted his teeth against the throbbing of his cock.

Looking into her eyes, Harry pleaded silently for her forgiveness because he had to move again.  He’d stayed there as long as he could before his own need was overwhelming him.  He slid the hand touching her face behind her head, cupping it to protect it from the assault he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to control.  But Hermione buried her face in his neck instead. So he held her to him like that, resting his cheek on the crown of her head as he began to move while she wept into his neck. 

Pulling back slowly, he drove into her again, letting out a shuddering breath as he did so.  She was so tight around him, so warm and wet that his eyes rolled up in his head. The pleasure was so intense that he was trembling all over, biting down on his own lips painfully to try and stifle the moans escaping him every time he pressed into her.

Harry took her like that. He took her virginity and her dignity while she was chained against the wall as a room full of Death Eaters looked on. They laughed, jeering, and catcalling while she cried into his shoulder and Ron’s screams rang in his ears.  Pieces of himself, his sanity were breaking away as he violated her, their friendship crumbling apart with every thrust into her body. 

Harry tried to be quick. He tried to be gentle, fighting against the potion and the demands of his fevered body.  Then he was gasping with every stroke, all the sounds around him finally muffled by the roaring in his own ears as his climax approached.  He wanted to bury himself inside her, to yell out his release, but he pulled out of her at the last moment, afraid to come inside her. 

Staggering backwards, he fell back to his knees, growling as his cock convulsed, spilling his seed into his hand while he shuddered all over with the ecstasy of his release and with the horror of what he’d done. Harry was breathing hard, willing his body to calm down, for his vision to clear and his ears to stop ringing, for his heart to stop breaking, while the effects of the potion drained out of him, having fulfilled its purpose, leaving him cold all over.

“My, God, Harry!” Bellatrix exclaimed, her voice heavy with desire. “You are exquisite.  Such strength of will, so beautifully stubborn.  You’ve proved remarkably resilient, you know.  How I would love more time with you to break you completely.”

Yet Harry knew that she already had.  She’d finally stripped him of everything. He was devastated when he believed Ron and Hermione were dead, but even then he might have fought back to avenge them, like he had with Cedric, Sirius, and Dumbledore, those losses causing him to fight harder.  But turning them against him like this was a masterstroke, he thought, the _coup de grâce of her brilliantly played game_.  Without them, he was nothing.  Her final move was a checkmate that would cause everyone he loved to abandon him, for there would be no more Molly and Arthur, no Fred and George, no Ginny. No Hagrid or Lupin or Tonks either, once they’d learned what he’d done.  All of them would be gone. Harry actually wrapped his arms around himself to keep from falling to pieces at the realization.

He looked up at Hermione, to beg her forgiveness, to try to make her understand, but what he saw stopped him cold.  He’d left her there exposed to the whole room.  It appeared he’d discarded her once he was finished with her.  Harry could see the clearly defined impression of his hand on her thigh from where he’d gripped her while he raped her, bruised where his fingertips had dug in to her flesh, and he felt sick. 

She was shaking with sobs, and there was blood smeared on her other thigh; her blood, evidence of what he’d stolen from her. At the sight of it, he vomited. Heaving up the remains of the potion, and then bile, and then nothing, though he continued to retch, Harry sobbed between the violent contracting of his stomach.

“Now, now, Harry, it’s almost over,” Bellatrix said soothingly.  “I was going to have you show us what Snape taught you.  For the blood traitor to get his turn with you.  Lucius said it was remarkable to watch, but I think now that Snape has proven his true loyalty that maybe the whole thing between you two was an act.  That perhaps you’ve been sucking him off for years now.”  

Harry shook his head in denial, still keening in misery.

“Just let them go,” he begged. “I did what you wanted.  Let them go now.”

“The Dark Lord returns, Harry, and it will be my honor to serve you up to him on a silver platter,” she went on, ignoring his pleading. “Severus’s betrayal will prove to him that I am his most faithful, his most loyal servant.  And he will know his faith in me was not unfounded.  That I alone could be trusted with his most secret of secrets, his most prized of possessions. When others have failed him, Lucius, Snape—”

“You’re fucking delusional!” he spat, suddenly furious again. “Voldemort doesn’t give a damn about you or anyone el—”

His head was jerked suddenly, violently to the side, his nose spraying blood as her booted foot connected with his face, leaving him dazed and blinded by pain.

“I warned you not to speak his name, Potter!” she growled furiously, utterly deranged as she glared down at him.  “I think perhaps we should see how much Weasley can take before he breaks.”

Then Ron was screaming again as she cursed him, his limbs jerking, his body convulsing, arching off the wall. Mindless of the throbbing pain, Harry tried to stagger up, intent on bringing Bellatrix down, feeling like he was moving in slow motion. Then Hermione was screaming as she, too, was hit with the Cruciatus.

Bellatrix was laughing, and he had almost reached her when he was grabbed from behind by Greyback.  Harry kicked out, trying to topple Bellatrix as he was pulled back into Greyback’s huge chest, his arms pinned to his sides. 

“Looks like I’m first in line after all, my little bitch,” Greyback growled in his ear.

Pressing his arousal into Harry’s backside, Greyback ground against him as Harry struggled frantically to free himself from the werewolf’s iron grip.  Blood poured from his nose as Ron screamed, Hermione screamed, Harry screamed.

He could feel it building in him, rage so hot that it was actually billowing out of him, rolling off him in waves. Bubbling under his skin were waves of golden flames.  Those same golden flames that had shot out of his wand at Voldemort when they fled Privet Drive all those months ago, when his wand had acted of its own accord, when it had shattered Lucius’s wand. But he had no wand this time.  The flames were coming from him, out of his pores. Instinctively, he held his hands out towards Hermione and Ron, to protect them from himself, from the explosion he could feel building in him.  Shield charms erupted around them and cut off their screaming at last. But he was still screaming.  He couldn’t stop, and he could feel his last hold on his sanity breaking loose, his hatred fueling the flames consuming him. 

He would not let them torture Ron and Hermione into madness! Would not let these monsters kill them here in front of him!

Unable to hold him any longer, Greyback released him finally, and Harry exploded into flames. Blowing all the Death Eaters backwards off their feet, his magic slammed them into the walls while he shielded Ron and Hermione from his vengeance. The golden flames blackened the walls, and warped the door, setting the room on fire while he screamed in fury. He screamed until he’d exhausted all his strength, screamed until his voice shattered. And then he dropped his hands at last, dazed, completely undone, just standing in the middle of the room that had been devastated by his wrath.

Harry didn’t know how long he stood there in shock while his nose poured blood, watching the room fill up with smoke, watching the flames still licking up the charred face of who he thought had been Rudolphus. The Death Eaters who’d been blown into the walls had been set alight from the flames, burned beyond recognition.  Greyback was on his back near Harry’s feet, burnt, but alive.  Bellatrix was face down, also alive.  Two other Death Eaters were dead, but he didn’t remember who they were. And Avery was nearest Hermione, still alive as he was partially shielded from the damage, but not stirring.

Then he saw movement as someone appeared through the doorway.  It was Draco, his wand up.  Harry turned slowly to face him. 

Draco stood there a moment, his eyes wide, fearful as he surveyed the room.  Then he turned his wand, hand shaking, towards Ron and waved it once before it flew out of his grip, soaring towards Harry, who had his teeth bared at this new threat.

“Whoa, Potter!” he said bracingly, looking terrified as a wave of energy pushed him backwards.  “Whoa, okay?” He held his palms out in front of him in surrender. “I was just releasing his chains.  I’m not trying to hurt them.” 

When Harry didn’t respond or attack, Draco reached slowly into the pockets of his robes and another wave broke over him in warning.  He gritted his teeth against it.

“It’s okay,” he was saying soothingly. “It’s all right, okay?”  Cautiously, he removed his hand, holding their wands and Harry’s glasses that had been confiscated from them when they were captured. “Here, all right?”

Holding them up to Harry, Draco stretched out his arm.  Then he took a step forward. Harry actually growled a warning, crackling with electricity.

“Okay,” Draco conceded, hurriedly backing up again. “Here, I’ll give them to Weasley then, okay?” 

Draco sidled sideways, one hand still up in surrender. His eyes never leaving Harry’s, he held them out to Ron, who snatched them out of his hands.  Then he slowly backed towards the door again. Harry watched him retreat while Ron hurriedly stumbled past him to Hermione, stripping his shirt off as he went. 

Harry and Draco just stared at each other for what seemed a long time, and then Draco spoke. “Get them out of here, Potter.”

As if he were waiting for the command, Harry staggered over and grabbed Hermione and Ron by the wrists.  Then he flashed away with them in a swirling of flames and smoke.

They appeared the next moment in Ron’s room at the Burrow.  Ron and Hermione were huddled together on Ron’s bed where Harry had dropped them, Hermione draped in Ron’s shirt as she clung to his neck, curled against him.

Harry stared at them, tears rolling down his face at the fear he saw in their eyes. They were afraid of him. He wanted to tell them he was sorry, to beg them to forgive him.  But then an earsplitting alarm sounded from the breach of security when they had appeared in the room, and he could hear footfalls thundering on the stairs. 

The cavalry was finally coming, and he couldn’t be here when they arrived. As soon as the door was flung open, he flinched away again, gone in a flash of flames.

~ . ~


	9. Grimmauld Place

_It was so cold outside. Harry ducked his head against the biting wind, shivering.  Struggling forward through the snow, past the gate, he looked up.  He’d finally arrived at the house in Godric’s Hollow. His home, whole and inviting, a warm glow spilling from the mullioned windows. Harry could see people in the front room.  His heart sped up at the sight of them._

_In a daze, he approached, unable to believe what he was seeing.  His father was sitting on the couch, smiling.  Sirius stood at the mantle, his head thrown back in laughter. He looked younger than Harry had ever seen him before._

_Then he saw her, his mother, walking into the room. She stopped to kiss his father on the cheek before joining him on the couch, a steaming mug in her hands._

_Harry’s heart ached with longing as he pressed his face to the glass.  Slowly he put a hand to the window, tapping lightly with his frozen fingers. Lily looked up from her tea, surprise in her eyes, while James rose slowly from the couch, staring at him, the smile sliding from his face._

_“Dad,” Harry called. “Dad, it’s me.  It’s Harry!” There was excitement and longing in his voice as his father approached the window. “Dad, let me in.”_

_But the shock on his father’s face had turned to fear and then to sadness. Slowly he shook his head._

_Harry stared at him, bewildered. “Dad?”_

_Now Sirius appeared at the window, and Harry turned to him, thinking his father must not have recognized him.  Of course, he wouldn’t. He hadn’t seen Harry since he was a baby, but Sirius would know who he was._

_“Sirius,” he called. “Sirius, it’s me.  I need you to let me in.  Tell them who I am, Sirius. It’s me, Harry.” He banged his palm on the window urgently._

_“No, Harry,” his father said, his voice muffled through the glass.  “Son, I can’t let you in.  I’m sorry, I can’t.”_

_“But…” Harry replied, confused and hurt. “But it’s cold, and it’s taken me so long to get here.  I’m so tired.  Please let me in.”_

_Then his mother was there, too, tears in her eyes as she stared at him.  He stared back at her, drinking her in.  She raised her hand to his so that they would be touching if not for the pane of glass separating them. A wave of longing broke over him._

_“Mum, please,” he pleaded._

_“My sweet boy,” she cried, her voice cracking. “My beautiful boy.”_

_Harry’s eyes welled up with tears at her voice, his heart aching at her words._

_“I need to come in,” he told her. “Mum, open the door, okay?”_

_“No, Harry,” Sirius said then, shaking his head, denying him. “No… you have to go back, Harry, you can’t stay here.”_

_“Please!” he yelled, feeling angry now as his mother turned away from him, her hand to her mouth, crying into his father’s embrace._

_Harry couldn’t understand what was wrong with them.  Why weren’t they happy to see him?  He ran to the door, yanking on the handle, wailing in frustration when it wouldn’t open for him.  Banging on the door, sobbing now, he begged to be let in._

_“I’m sorry, okay?  I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Please let me in.”He was pounding on the unyielding door with his fists, ramming his shoulder against it, hysterical at their refusal to open it.  He could still hear her crying on the other side._

_“Please, Mum, please,” he begged, sliding to his knees, pressed against the barrier that separated him from them, heartbroken at their rejection.  “Please don’t leave me out here.”_

* * *

 

“RON!” Hermione screamed. “Ron, he’s in here. Oh, My God, Harry!”

Ron rushed in behind her, wand out.

“FUCK ME!” he yelled, horrorstruck when he caught site of Harry who was sitting propped against the side of the tub, his face white as a sheet, resting on the edge.

Harry’s arms were thrown over the sides as blood ran from them, dripping off his fingertips and into the tub, pooling in the bottom, and running down the drain.

“Shit, Shit!” Ron chanted as he slid his arms under Harry’s armpits.  Clasping his hands around Harry's chest, Ron dragged him out of the bathroom and back into Sirius’s bedroom, where he deposited his limp body on the bed. Hermione had already torn off the dusty duvet and was ripping the top sheet into strips.

“I think he’s still alive, ‘Mione,” he told her shakily. “Barely.” 

He seemed unable to move then, in shock at what he was seeing.  Hermione pushed him aside and grabbed Harry’s wrist.

“Don’t you leave us,” she begged as she quickly bound the terrible wounds as best she could to stop the flow.  “Don’t you dare leave us!”

Harry was covered in blood so that she couldn’t see exactly where he’d cut himself, though it seemed to be welling up from everywhere. Wrapping his arm from wrist to elbow, she secured it tightly there then moved to the other arm, which wasn’t bleeding nearly as much.  Apparently, he had done so much damage to the first arm that he wasn’t able to complete the work on his other.

“Oh, Merlin!” Lupin exclaimed in horror when he staggered into the room and saw Harry on the bed.  “What did they do to him?”

“Lupin, we need a healer quickly!” she told him frantically. “Go and find Madame Pomfrey.  She’s the only one I trust to see him.” When he continued to stand there with his mouth open, she shouted, “REMUS… please!”

Turning, he fled from the room without another word.

“Hurry!” she called after him. 

Then she turned back to Harry.  She didn’t know what else to do for him.  She was trembling with fear at the sight of him.  His face was pure white, making the dark bruises under his eyes even more prominent.  Blood had dried on his face from his nose and mouth.  He was lying on his back, his legs dangling off the bed where Ron had deposited him, his arms thrown out from where she had worked to stop the bleeding, still nude, still covered in blood.

“Ron, help me get him all the way onto the bed.”  For some reason, she didn’t want anyone else to come in and see him like this.  But Ron still hadn’t moved.  He just stood there, staring blankly at Harry.  “Ron!” she called sharply again, and he slowly turned to her.  “Help me move him.  Please, Ron.”

“Right, okay,” he finally agreed, blinking rapidly and nodding his head.

Carefully, they dragged Harry into the middle of the bed, resting his head on the pillows.  She draped what remained of the sheet across his lap, and then they both just stared at him, watching his shallow breathing, counting the minutes, at a loss as to what else to do.

It had taken them almost an hour to find him after he’d pulled them out of the dungeons of Malfoy Manor and dropped them in Ron’s bedroom. Then before she could even comprehend what had happened, or how, he was gone again.  And then Arthur and Lupin had burst in, wands out, followed closely by Molly and George.  It took them thirty minutes just to get out of the Burrow.  Molly was hysterical at the sight of them.  Everyone was yelling, crying, asking questions, and Hermione and Ron were frantic to get free.  Finally, they had managed to convey that Harry was in serious trouble and that they had to find him. 

Breaking into teams of three, they searched every place they could think that Harry might have gone, terrified they would run into Death Eaters searching for them.  God, if they had been much longer, he might already be dead. 

She stood there, holding herself together by the elbows, still in Ron’s too-large shirt and a borrowed pair of Ginny’s jeans, her feet bare, with Ron who was still shirtless, his chest and arms now smeared with Harry’s blood.

There were heavy footfalls on the stairs suddenly, and Hermione whirled around, wand up, as Lupin came running back into the room, quickly followed by Madame Pomfrey.  At the sight of Harry, the healer threw a hand to her mouth and let out a wail of despair.

“Oh, my dear!” she gasped as she hurried towards him, throwing her bag down beside his head. 

Hermione stepped back, giving her room to do her work.  Watching helplessly as the healer poked and prodded him, poured potions down his throat, and muttered incantations under her breath while the bandages on Harry’s arms continued to darken with his blood.

Realizing that Harry was in the best hands possible, Hermione turned to Lupin again. “Remus, we need to put up protective enchantments.  It’s not safe here.  The Death Eaters could come barging in at any moment, and I don’t think we can move him.  Can you help me, please?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, tearing his eyes away from Harry to focus on her.

“Do you know how to perform a Fidelius charm?” she asked.

“I have never done one, no, but I know the incantation.”

“Ron, come and help us,” she told him. 

Dully, he looked at her and nodded.  Then they left the room, giving Harry and the healer some privacy.

First, they sent messages to the others who were searching for Harry, having forgotten them in their haste to get him medical attention.  Then they went to work, throwing every protective charm they could think of on the house.  By the time they were finished, nearly everyone had converged on Grimmauld Place.  All of them clamored for news, peppering them with questions on where they’d been, what had happened, how they’d escaped, how Harry was, and still Madame Pomfrey hadn’t made an appearance. 

Finally, Hermione managed to send them all away, begging them for privacy, promising them news as soon as it was available.  When everyone had gone, she and Remus cast the charm to conceal the house, making Hermione the secret keeper.  Then in relief, she staggered into a chair in the drawing room, mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.

It was three hours before Madame Pomfrey finally appeared in the drawing room, looking haggard.  Strands of her hair had pulled loose from the confines of her bun, tear tracks stained her face.  Hermione jumped to her feet when she saw her.

“Madame Pomfrey, is he going to be okay?” she asked hurriedly.

“I have done all I can for him,” she told them sadly. Wringing her hands helplessly, she stood quietly for a few minutes before she went on. “I’ve been treating that boy since he was eleven years old.  I know every injury he’s ever suffered.  I know what he’s endured in his short life, but this ....” Her voice trailed off as her lips trembled. 

“I have never seen so much suffering,” she whispered, her hands beginning to shake now. “His wounds are so numerous, his body so battered, so bruised and broken, that frankly, I don’t know how it is that he’s alive at all.” She burst into tears then, her professional manner completely lost.

“Poppy!”  Lupin said in surprise, rushing to her. Pulling her into an embrace, he patted her consolingly on the back.

“That boy has been through too much, Remus,” she told him, wiping her eyes, getting herself under control again.  “I have him heavily sedated right now.  His body needs rest, time to heal.  The potions and spells can only do so much.  He is magically and physically exhausted.” 

Sniffing, she pulled a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.  After she recovered for a moment, she turned to Hermione and said, “Miss Granger, may I see you privately, please?”

“Of course,” Hermione replied, startled.

They stepped into the hallway, Madame Pomfrey pulling the door closed behind her.

“Hermione, I don’t know how much you know of what they did to Harry, but I suspect it’s enough.  I need to examine you for injuries, and Mr. Weasley, too, I would think.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione argued.

“I insist. You both have clearly sustained injuries,” Madame Pomfrey responded briskly, pointing to Hermione’s raw and bleeding wrists. She lowered her voice.  “Hermione, Harry was raped, as I am sure you know judging by the state of him.  More than once from what I can tell.  I need to examine you.  I know you don’t wish to discuss this with me, but it’s important that we get you treated as quickly as possible.”

Hermione ducked her head, hugging herself again, heat rising in her face.  She didn’t want to talk about this.  Didn’t want to confess what had happened in that terrible place. Couldn’t face what Harry was forced to do to her.  She didn’t want anyone to know, didn’t want anyone to ever know what happened. She shook her head in denial.

“It was Harry they wanted to hurt.  They only kept us there to control him… as another way to torture him,” she explained with a sob.  “I wasn’t… I’m not hurt,” she lied.

Madame Pomfrey stared at her while she continued to look down, trying to blink back tears.  “Well,” she said finally, clearly not convinced. “Take this potion for me anyway, dear.”  She pulled a small vial from her bag. “It’s for… well… it will prevent any unplanned… any unintended consequences,” she finished awkwardly, pressing the vial into Hermione’s hand.

“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Hermione mumbled.

“And Mr. Weasley?” she asked.

“No. Ron and I are both okay. Tired, hungry, a little shaken and bruised up, but we’re both fine.”

“All right, dear, let’s rejoin the others then.” They stepped back into the drawing room. “I am leaving instructions for Harry’s care,” the healer began to the room at large. “He will need a blood replenishing potion every two hours.  The dressing on his arms will also need to be changed regularly.” She paused, and after a moment she started again, more quietly. “I cannot heal self-inflicted wounds so they will have to heal on their own, and he did quite enough damage to be getting on with,” she admitted, her voice shaking again.  “He is severely dehydrated and malnourished.  I suspect you two are, as well.  I have laid out potions for that. Also, he has several wounds that are infected, including the bite marks to his back and shoulder.”

“Bite marks?” Remus interjected, looking thunderstruck, as if he knew who and what had caused them. 

“It’s not the full moon for another week, Remus,” she reminded him.  “There is an ointment for those wounds to help with the healing, though they will never fully heal, of course.  And he has a fever as well that will need to be tended to, a potion every four hours for that.”  She sighed deeply, rubbing at her weary face and went on. “His nose, jaw, and ribs are healing, but he will be incredibly sore when he wakes, which shouldn’t be for some time.  Still, there is a pain relieving potion in case he needs it.  I have written all of this down and left it with the medicines beside the bed.  Please keep a record of what you’ve given him and when.  I’ll be back in the morning to check on him.”

After staring at them solemnly for a moment, she turned to leave.

“Here,” Remus said, hurrying to show her out.

“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Hermione called after her.

“Of course, dear,” she replied.  “Please look after yourselves.” And then she was gone, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in the drawing room, Hermione still clutching the potion she’d given her.

As Lupin was seeing Madame Pomfrey out, she and Ron took the stairs back to Sirius’ bedroom.  They stood at the door.  Hermione felt shaky now, the adrenaline gone from her, afraid to go in and see him again, afraid not to see him.  Then Ron slipped his hand into hers, squeezed it, and turned the handle.

Even though she had seen Harry just a few hours ago in the worst possible condition, with the life draining out of him into the bathtub, it was still a shock to see him again now, looking so ghostly pale on the bed, so frail.  Madame Pomfrey had re-bandaged his arms, and siphoned off most of the blood from his face and arms, though they were still stained.  She’d replaced the bedding which had been smeared with blood, and had covered him to the waist with clean linens.  His heavily bandaged arms lay at his sides over the blankets.  His chest was wrapped tightly in more bandages, so that the scar from where the locket had fused itself to him during their escape from Voldemort at Bathilda’s house was barely visible over the top of it.  Harry was covered in bruises on the parts of his body still visible. His whole face was swollen, his lip ragged and torn, his neck still red and raw. But the worst part was just how still and lifeless he was.  Hermione just stared at him, unable to look away, or move, or think.

Lupin returned after a few moments.  Entering silently, walking towards Harry as if in a daze, he came around the side of the bed near Harry’s head. Then he just stared down at him, like her and Ron. All of them stood there silently for a long time, watching Harry’s abnormally still form.  Then Remus lifted a hand to Harry’s forehead, carefully brushing back his matted fringe with his fingertips.

“The last time I saw him, I cursed him,” he confessed in a low voice full of anguish.

“Remus,” she began.

“And he was right, of course. I was a fool, and he was right.”

“Remus, he’d forgiven you before you’d even made it out the door,” she told him. “You know that.  Harry loves you.  He was only trying to protect you.”

“We tried to find you… we did,” he whispered.

Hermione didn’t respond because his confession was to Harry. He blinked back tears and sniffed, his body trembling with grief. “You were right. Your father would have been ashamed of me, Harry.”

“Remus, please,” she pleaded, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “You need to go home to Tonks.  I’m sure she must be worried.” He was alarming her. She had never seen him so undone before. “Rest,” she declared. “We all need some rest.  Why don’t you come back in the morning with Madame Pomfrey, all right?  I’m sure Harry will be much better then.” 

Lupin watched Harry a minute more before finally nodding his head in reluctant agreement. 

Hermione watched him go with relief.  Tonks would take care of him.  For a long time after he left, she and Ron still stood there. Silently, they watched Harry; Ron still holding her hand, squeezing her fingers, stroking the backs of her knuckles with his fingertips.

“I’ll keep watch, Hermione,” Ron spoke finally, startling her.  “You need to rest, too.”

It was if a dam had burst within her at his words. Turning in to him, sobbing, she was suddenly weak with grief, finally able to let it go now that everyone else had gone and it was just the three of them again. Wrapping his arms around her, Ron held her to his chest, holding her up while she fell apart, clinging to him. 

When she’d finally cried herself out, he helped her onto the bed next to Harry, conjured a blanket out of thin air and draped it over her.  Then he pulled the chair over next to the bed and dropped heavily into it. She turned away from Harry, facing Ron, her knees curled into her body. He slipped his hand back into hers, and she fell asleep like that.

She woke a few hours later, though it seemed like only a moment. She was groggy and unsure where she was, what had woken her, but then Ron was there again.

“I’m sorry, Hermione.  I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. “But I was hungry, so I went down to the kitchen to see if there was anything left here to eat.  I found some crackers and salami.” His stomach growled. “Plus, it’s time for Harry’s potions.” 

Hermione sat up, hungry herself. They had a meal of hard salami on crackers with water in the middle of the night by moonlight. Then they gave Harry his scheduled doses of fever reducer and blood replenishment potions. And then she couldn’t go back to sleep, though Ron told her to, that he would keep watch through the night. Instead, she curled up at the head of the bed, tucked the blanket around her, and stared at Harry’s silhouetted form. 

“I’ve never seen magic like Harry did,” Ron said quietly after a long silence, and it was a long pause again before she answered.

“He shouldn’t have been able to breach the wards at Malfoy Manor or at the Burrow.  He Apparated us out of there, but it wasn’t exactly Apparition, was it?  It didn’t feel like that.  I thought I saw… I thought I saw him transform into… something… at the Burrow, right before he vanished.”

“I saw it, too.  Just for a moment. Then those flames and he was gone.”

They sat like that all night, sometimes talking quietly, sometimes sitting in silence while Harry lay unmoving on the bed next to her.

The next morning Hermione felt stiff and sore. Maybe from so many days in the dungeons, chained to the wall, maybe from the Cruciatus, maybe from simply sitting so long with her feet tucked under her on the bed that night. But when Madame Pomfrey and Lupin arrived that morning, she had a hard time getting off the bed. 

Madame Pomfrey watched her, and she knew she must look a fright.  Her face felt puffy and swollen from crying so hard the night before on Ron.  She hadn’t bathed since before they were captured.  Looking herself over, she realized that she was still wearing the mismatched assortment of clothes, and the shirt had Harry’s blood smeared on it from where she had wiped her hands.  Her wrists were red and raw.  The skin had torn in several places and the blood had dried, mixed with dirt.  Her hands were still stained with Harry’s blood, too, caked in the creases and grooves of her skin and around her fingernails.  She was suddenly overcome with the urge to get clean.

“Ron, while Lupin and Madame Pomfrey are here with Harry, we need to go back to the campsite where we were captured,” she told him.

He looked up at her in alarm. “What?”

“I threw my bag, my beaded bag into some bushes before we… before… I think it may still be there. Everything we own is in that bag, Ron. We need it,” she said pointedly. 

Though it was clear from the look on his face that he was terrified of going back there, he agreed to go and be back quickly. Mercifully they did find the bag quickly, only after a few minutes searching. Both of them were shaking when they reappeared.

Madame Pomfrey was still with Harry when they returned, so Hermione took the shower she was so desperate for while they waited. 

She took a long time, scrubbing her body fiercely, trying to wash away the fear she’d felt when she found herself back in the woods where their tent had stood that night, and the remnants of Malfoy Manor that still clung to her every pore.  She rubbed the skin raw, crying as the blood on her thighs and hands and wrists washed down the drain, her blood, and Harry’s. Shaking all over as several layers of dirt and at least two of skin followed.  And she fell apart again as it stung when she ran the soapy rag between her legs, cleaning herself gingerly.  Then she washed her hair over and over.  She kept lathering it up and rinsing it out, feeling like it wouldn’t come clean. Finally she just stood there, with the water running over her, until it ran cold, trying to pull herself together again.

When she got out, she brushed her teeth until the gums bled and scrubbed her face until it stung.  She dressed in her own clothes then, trying to avoid looking at the bruise on her thigh when she pulled on her jeans.  When she was finished, she stood in front of the mirror a long time, clutching the potion Madame Pomfrey had given her the night before, staring at her reflection in the foggy mirror.  Finally, she drank it down, as tears rolled down her cheeks again.

Emerging from the bathroom, dressed in her own clothes, her hair damp around her shoulders, she did feel better, though she was sure she probably looked worse than when she went in.  Every inch of her skin stung, the clothes chafing against it, and the skin on her face felt stretched, pulled too tight over her cheeks. 

Ron was waiting for her when she emerged.  He was sitting in the hall directly across from the door.  He looked up at her when she opened it, and she realized that he’d been out here the whole time.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

She nodded at him, though she felt like crying again. He stood then, facing her, standing close. 

“I think I could use one, too.  Wait for me?” 

She nodded again, handing him the bag that contained all of their possessions.  She’d left her dirty things on the floor of the bathroom.  She’d have to launder them later today, she thought.

When Ron exited the bathroom, he looked as pink as she probably did, though he took considerably less time than she had.  They went down to the kitchen, where they joined Lupin at the table.  Mrs. Weasley had sent Lupin with baskets and baskets of her wonderful cooking, and she and Ron ate as much as they could hold, talking with Lupin, between mouthfuls, about Harry, about the wandless magic he’d done. 

He wanted to know how they’d escaped, and she told him what led up to it, what Harry had done, deliberately skipping over what he’d done to her, going red when she could feel Ron’s concerned eyes on her, though he remained silent. 

In turn, Lupin told them what Madame Pomfrey had told him about the strange circumstances of Snape turning up in her infirmary by portkey, unconscious, only hours before their escape. Then about how he’d fled Hogwarts almost immediately after he’d regained consciousness.

They talked about the commotion they heard outside their cell before Harry had been led in, how they thought the Order had finally come to their rescue, about what Bellatrix had said about Snape’s betrayal, about Draco returning their wands. 

Then Madame Pomfrey appeared in the kitchen, looking just as weary as the night before, and she sat at the table with them for a while, drinking a cup of tea that Lupin had made for her.

They departed together again after Lupin checked on Harry while Madame Pomfrey insisted on looking her and Ron over until she was satisfied that they were not badly injured.  Before she’d left, they were both sporting matching bandages on their wrists, and each was forced to drink a potion for the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse. 

Then they returned to Sirius’ room, taking up their positions from the night before, waiting for Harry, watching him. 

Hermione knew when Voldemort had returned to Malfoy Manor that morning.  Knew the minute he’d learned what had happened.  She knew when he’d turned his wrath on his followers because Harry suddenly started moaning, his scar going bright red against his abnormally pale face.  His whole body seized up, and then he started to thrash on the bed, convulsing, biting his own tongue, screaming, though he no longer had a voice. 

It went on for so long, and Hermione could do nothing for him except put him in a full body bind to stop him injuring himself further from the thrashing after she and Ron had tried, unsuccessfully, to hold him down.  She spoke soothingly to him, trying to coax him out of the vision, crying again when blood started dripping from his nose.

Voldemort’s fury must have been incredible to witness.  It went on for over an hour, until she thought he would kill Harry with the vision, undoing all of Madame Pomfrey’s work, reversing what little progress he’d made, and leaving him even more frail on the bed.  Then, when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, that evening his fever started to spike. 

~ . ~


	10. Killing Time

Hermione continued to sit next to Harry, holding his hand, stroking his hair, speaking soothing nonsense words to him long after Voldemort’s fury had abated. And not until she was completely sure it was over did she wipe the blood from his nose and release him from the binding spell.  It was with relief that she saw his body relax back onto the bed, back into that unnatural stillness, leaving her feeling weak with fatigue all over again.

They sat with Harry the whole morning.  Neither she nor Ron could rest from the anxiety and fear that Voldemort’s return had inspired in them, fear he would attack Harry again, that the Fidelius charm hadn’t worked, and he and his Death Eaters would come bursting in on them.  Both of them felt panicky, unable to do anything but huddle there in Sirius’ room and wait for whatever was coming. 

Hunger finally drove Ron out, and he went down to the kitchens and brought up some sandwiches he’d made with the food Mrs. Weasley sent over that morning, which they washed down with pumpkin juice.  Then it was time for Harry’s potions again. Propping the pillows up behind him, she elevated him slightly. Then she gave him the fever reducer, the blood replenishment and a nourishment potion, slowly tipping the contents into his mouth while massaging his throat to make him swallow them down.  Finally, she touched the tip of her wand to his lower abdomen, emptying his bladder with a muttered spell.

Next, she set to work on his arms. Carefully unwinding the bandages, intent on replacing them because blood was seeping into them again after he’d flailed them around and she and Ron had tried to hold them down.  It was slow going from the sheer volume of gauze wrapped around his forearms and because the blood had fused the wrappings together, sticking it to his skin.  She was trying to be careful not to tear the wounds back open.  Then she got a look at what he’d done to himself, and her eyes welled up with tears again, knowing now why the blood seemed to be coming from everywhere when they’d found him. 

The left arm was the worst.  Harry hadn’t been content, evidently, to just slash across the wrist.  He’d taken the knife vertically up his arm as well, forming a crooked T, cutting deeply into the flesh, almost up to the crook of his elbow.  Trying to do the job properly, the skin was an angry red, swollen and puffy where it was trying to knit back together again.  It was going to leave a terrible scar.  The right arm was not nearly as bad, probably because he was trying to use the knife in the wrong hand.  He’d managed to slice it across the wrist, but then, apparently, gave it up as a bad job or passed out before he could complete the work. 

“Oh, Harry,” she cried; crying for what he’d been through, for all that he’d endured for them, and for what he’d done to himself to end his grief.  Knowing these scars would join so many others on his body.  It seemed she could map his whole life, every year she’d known him, by the scars he bore. 

Sniffing, she wiped her eyes. Setting back to work, she generously applied the healing ointment Madame Pomfrey had left onto the cuts, smearing a thick layer of the purplish cream along the length of the scar. Then she re-wrapped his arms in fresh bandages as carefully as she could. When she’d finished, she turned to Ron. He’d grown silent since Voldemort’s attack that morning so that she thought he must have fallen asleep after lunch, but she found him watching her tend to Harry. Simply staring at her, he looked so tired and worn out, and there was a haunted look in his eyes.

“Ron?” she asked quietly. “Can you help me lift him so I can put this ointment on his back?”

He didn’t respond. He simply got up, walked slowly over to the side of the bed where she stood, and sat down next to Harry.  Then he leaned down and slid his hands under Harry’s neck and back. Gathering him into his arms, Ron pressed Harry into his chest as he sat back up.  Harry moaned weakly as he was pulled into a sitting position, his swollen face turned to the side, resting against Ron’s chest. 

As Ron held him there in that embrace, Hermione removed the bandages and dabbed the foul smelling ointment onto the bite marks on his back and shoulder.  When she’d finished and had replaced the bandages with fresh ones, he laid Harry gently back onto the pillows and then returned to his chair without a word.  Hermione stared after him, beginning to worry, but there was nothing she could do for him.  If he needed to talk to her, they had nothing but time, it appeared.  He would come to her when he was ready, she reasoned. But as the afternoon wore on, the silence started to become oppressive, so she fished the wizarding wireless from her bag and fiddled with it until she finally got a signal.  Not really listening to it, but relieved to feel like the silencing charms weren’t surrounding them all again like they had been in the dungeons, some of the tension left her. 

By nightfall the anxiety had returned. She was really starting to become worried for both Harry and Ron. The fever reducing potion was only supposed to be administered every four hours, but Harry’s temperature wasn’t coming down enough after she gave him his scheduled doses, and it was rising back up again much too soon.  His pallor had gone from extremely pale to flushed, and she could feel the heat radiating off him as she sat next to him on the bed.

Ron, on the other hand, was falling into a depression.  She’d tried to engage him in conversation, but he only responded with yes or no answers, and so she gave up after a while and went downstairs to get something together for dinner.  When she’d gone to the loo, she found both of their discarded clothes still on the bathroom floor.  Having forgotten about them, she collected them and busied herself with cleaning them for a while, then found other menial tasks to pass the time, finally returning to Sirius’ room well after dark, toting more sandwiches and a few books from the Black family’s library. 

She found Ron asleep on the bed next to Harry when she’d returned, so she took the chair he’d vacated.  He looked troubled even in his sleep, she thought.  Guessing it was her turn on watch, she grabbed a sandwich and a book and settled into the chair, reading by wand light.  When she started to feel sleepy, she left the comfort of the chair, and went to check on Harry.  His fever was too high again, and he wasn’t due for another fever reducer for over an hour.  He was no longer lying deathly still anymore either. His breathing seemed labored. A wheezing had started in his chest. His forehead was creased in pain or with the effort to breathe, and his hands lay fisted by his sides.  He was restless, mumbling, though it was nothing but the hiss of air across his damaged vocal chords. 

Conjuring a rag, she dampened it and cast a cooling charm on it before placing it on his neck.  Then she used another to cool his fevered flesh, running it over his head as she tried to smooth the creases from his forehead and around his eyes.  She ran it across his shoulders and down his arms as she tried to relax his fisted hands, leaving a trail of goose bumps on his skin everywhere the cool rag touched him.  He was much too warm.

“Come on, Harry,” she whispered to him.  “Come on, now. Don’t do this.”

She continued to stroke him with the cool rag as Ron slept, snoring on the bed next to Harry while the wireless droned in the background.  But her efforts to bring his fever down didn’t seem to be having any effect at all.  Finally in desperation, she threw the blankets off his legs, exposing him to the cool night air. Conjuring more cold rags, she laid them on his bare thighs, on his shins, and his stomach.  His lips started to tremble with the cold, shaking all over, yet still, his fever climbed. Then she didn’t care anymore if it was too early for the potion, giving him another dose as she continued to recast the cooling charms, frantically trying to bring his temperature down.  He was boiling with fever now, heat pouring off him so it felt like she was standing in front of a furnace, and he was shaking more violently on the bed now, too. 

No, more than just shaking, she suddenly realized.  He’d started to convulse!

“No, no, no!” she cried.  “Ron!” She was panicking now. “Oh, God, Ron, help me!” she yelled.

He jerked upright on the bed at the terror in her voice. “Whasamatter?” he mumbled as he fought to untangle himself from the blanket she’d thrown off Harry, which had wrapped around his legs. 

“It’s Harry. He’s burning up with fever, and I can’t bring it down!” she sobbed hysterically.  “He’s having a seizure, or something.”

Harry was thrashing and jerking on the bed, choking on his own tongue. 

“Oh, God!” she wailed, shaking all over with fear.

Ron finally freed himself and stumbled out of the bed, bumping into the chair in the dim light, still not fully awake. Then he was next to her, rubbing his eyes, trying to comprehend what she was saying, what he was seeing as he stared bleary-eyed down at Harry.  Finally it seemed to dawn on him what was happening, and he sprang into action. Scooping Harry into his arms, Ron grunted under his full weight, struggling to keep control of Harry’s jerking body.

“Gotta… get him… into the bath,” he panted. Turning, he staggered towards the bathroom where they’d found Harry two nights before. “Fill it,” he instructed breathlessly, fighting to hold Harry, who was convulsing violently as she ran into the bath ahead of him. “Fill it… with freezing cold… water.”

She did as he commanded, as quickly as she could. Then she shrank back against the sink, getting out of Ron’s way in the small room as he tried to lower Harry into the tub without dropping him.  As soon as Harry hit the water, his whole body seized up, going stiff all over.  Sucking in a shuddering breath, he let it out on a silent scream. Harry’s eyes flew open, wild and panicked, but not really seeing either of them as he fought Ron; trying to claw his way out of the tub, over Ron, who was desperately attempting to hold him down. Icy water was sloshing over the side of the tub, soaking Ron’s shirt and trousers and splashing onto the floor in their struggle. 

Hermione just stood there, horrified by what was happening, frozen in shock while Harry thrashed and kicked, drawing blood on Ron’s arms and face.  But he was too weak to get away, to push Ron off him.  He was hysterical with fear, trembling with cold, his teeth chattering while his lips turned blue.

“Shit!” Ron growled.  “It’s okay, Harry, it’s okay.” Gritting his teeth in pain, he turned to her. “GET OUT OF HERE,” he shouted, still struggling to hold onto Harry, to hold him in the water, pressing down on his shoulders to keep him submerged.

“W... What?” she stammered, shocked by his sudden anger.

“He’s dangerous!” he spat, his face still screwed up in pain.  “You remember what he did at the Malfoy’s?  Get out!”

Hermione did run out of the bathroom then, but only to grab her wand, intent on protecting Ron from Harry, or Harry from himself, or both.  She didn’t know what Harry was doing, but she knew it was causing Ron pain. She certainly wasn’t going to leave him in there alone.

“Damn it, Harry, stop it!”  She heard Ron roar as she staggered around the room whimpering, frantically trying to locate her wand in the dim light. 

She cried out in relief when she finally found it on the floor, almost under the bed from where it had rolled off when Ron had grabbed him. 

In the moments it took her to return to the bath, though, the fight seemed to have gone out of Harry. Too weak to continue to struggle any longer, he’d finally exhausted himself with the effort.  Ron was leaning over him now. Nearly in the bath himself, he held onto either side of Harry’s head, his forehead pressed to Harry’s while Harry gripped him tightly by the wrists.  Poor Harry was shaking all over, gasping for breath. Tears rolled down his cheeks as Ron spoke quietly to him, trying to calm him.

“Everything’s okay now, Harry. I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be all right,” he crooned in a low voice. “You’re okay now,” he repeated over and over again. “You’re okay.” 

It broke her heart to see Harry like this.  Delirious with fever, scared out of his mind.  She cried as she watched him clinging to Ron, not understanding why they were doing this to him, begging them to make it stop, to let him up, his mouth forming words he couldn’t voice. And then finally, it was over.

“I think he’s gonna be okay now,” Ron sighed, looking up at her after a few minutes.  “His fever’s down. The fit’s over.” 

Hermione just nodded her head stupidly as Ron pried his hands out of Harry’s grip and pulled the plug on the drain.  Sitting back on his haunches, Ron blew out a breath.  Then he ran a wet hand over his face and though his hair so that it stuck up in every direction, looking exhausted. Harry continued to shiver, whimpering as his teeth clacked together while the water drained off him. 

“Can you cast one of those drying charms on both of us?” Ron asked wearily, spreading his arms out so she could see that he was soaked to the skin, his shirt plastered to his chest.

“Yes… yes, of course,” she said as she cast the spell, her wand shaking with the violent trembling of her hands. 

When they were both dry, Ron thanked her and pulled Harry from the tub. Carrying him back to the bed, he laid Harry down in the middle. Then he fell down beside him, his breath whooshing out of him. Ron had collapsed face down on the bed, his long legs dangling off the side, one arm thrown over Harry’s chest. Hermione just stood there in the bathroom staring after him, still shaking all over.  Then slowly, she followed after them. 

Her mouth open in shock, she stood watching them both, completely bewildered by Ron’s abrupt behavior.  He was asleep again, just like that, with his face smashed into the mattress.  Hermione felt distinctly wrong-footed, as if she herself were dreaming.  Harry lay flat on his back, still trembling all over with cold and covered in goose bumps.  She stared a moment longer, then slowly dragged the blanket back over them both. Then she lay down on Harry’s other side, curling up close to him on the small bed.

Placing her hand on Ron’s arm and her head on Harry’s shoulder, she fell into an exhausted sleep herself.  And that’s how Madame Pomfrey found them the next morning.

~ . ~


	11. While You Were Sleeping

“What’s happened?” Madame Pomfrey asked loudly.

Hermione jerked up off the bed with a shriek of surprise. Losing her balance, she made a wild grab for something to steady herself, but managed to come up with only the blanket. So she slid off onto the floor in a heap with a soft flump, the blanket pooling around her. 

“Oh, I’m sorry I startled you, dear.”

Madame Pomfrey came around the bed quickly and held a hand out to help her up.  Hermione just blinked up at her, still unsure where she was or how she’d gotten there, her brain still clouded with sleep.  Her eyes were matted and felt gritty from so much crying the day before as she tried to rub them clear. Reaching up, she let Madame Pomfrey pull her to her feet.  Then she stood for a moment, staring around, trying to get her bearings. 

Lupin stood in the doorway, looking both surprised and amused.  Ron continued sleeping with his arm still thrown protectively over Harry’s chest as it had been last night, apparently undisturbed by the arrival of their guests. Harry was still flat on his back where Ron had deposited him, left exposed to the whole room when she’d pulled the blanket off onto the floor with her. 

Hermione went red all over at the sight of the two of them together on the bed, though Ron was fully clothed. What must it have looked like when Madame Pomfrey and Lupin had come in with her asleep on Harry’s other side, the three of them piled together on a bed that was much too small to hold them all?  She hurried to cover Harry with the blankets again, feeling utterly mortified for a moment as Ron finally started to stir.

“What time is it?” Hermione asked, suddenly worried.  “I think we missed his last dose of potions.”

Running her hands over Harry’s face and on his neck, she checked his temperature.  He was still fevered, his cheeks red, his lips chapped, but he wasn’t nearly as hot as he had been during the night. She blew out a relieved breath.

“Harry had a really bad night last night,” she explained. 

She told them about Voldemort’s attack, about Harry’s fever rising, about giving him a fever potion too early, about the convulsions, and about Ron putting him in the bath while Madame Pomfrey ran her wand over Harry, checking his vitals and assessing his condition.

“What’s happened to Ron’s hands?” the healer asked suddenly as she attempted to remove the arm he had thrown over Harry.

“I… I don’t know,” Hermione answered. Bewildered, she leaned in close to see. 

Ron’s hand had small, red, water-filled blisters on the palm and fingers, burnt from the appearance of it. Hermione was stunned.  She knew Harry must have caused the burns, but she was shocked that Ron had said nothing about them last night. He hadn’t tried to bandage them or asked her to heal them or anything.  He’d just gone straight back to bed last night as if nothing had happened.  They looked painful, but the damage probably would have been much worse if his hands hadn’t been immersed in the freezing water.

“Accidental magic,” Ron explained in a muffled voice. Then he rolled over onto his back and blinked up at them. “Harry didn’t appreciate the bath very much last night.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and then yawned hugely.

“He cannot continue to deplete his energies like that, magical or physical.  It’s too much for his body to take.”

“I know. I’m sorry, but we couldn’t bring his fever down,” Hermione tried to explain.

“I’m not blaming you, dear.  You both did what you had to do.  I’m just worried over his lack of progress.  He should be improving, but he just keeps deteriorating.  There is fluid in his lungs now, which is probably what caused his temperature to spike.  He needs St. Mungo’s, but we can’t possibly take him there or even to the infirmary at Hogwarts. It’s not safe.  He’s the Ministry’s and Death Eaters’ most wanted man.  But it won’t matter where we take him if he’s giving up the fight,” Madame Pomfrey said sadly.

“What?”  Hermione squawked.  “Madame Pomfrey, you’ve got to help him!”

“I’m doing all I can, Miss Granger!  As I said, there is only so much I can do with spells and potions.  Harry has to help himself a little, too. But the more weak he becomes physically and magically, the less chance he has of pulling out of this.”

Hermione stared at the healer open mouthed, the whole room going silent at the pronouncement. Then they all turned to look at Harry as Madame Pomfrey walked around the bed to Ron and held out her hand to him.  He stared at her for a minute, and then slowly placed his hand in hers, palm up.  She made a clucking noise with her tongue at the gouge marks on his forearms from Harry’s nails digging into him. Running her wand over the wounds, she healed them instantly, then the ones on his face. 

“I would suggest,” she said, smiling down at Ron as she spread burn cream onto his hands, “that you trim Mr. Potter’s nails before his next bath.”

“Yeah, I’ll remember to take the time to do that the next time he decides to boil his own brains with fever,” he replied grimly while she wrapped his hands in gauze.

“You did well, Mr. Weasley,” she praised him and patted his cheek, finished with her work on him. 

He looked like he was wearing mittens on his hands now, and he examined them with a frown.

“This is going to make things a bit difficult.”

“It’s only for a few hours,” she reassured him. “Then you can take them off.”

His stomach growling loudly then, and he gazed hopefully over at the plate of sandwiches Hermione had brought up for dinner, but they’d gone stale in the night.

“Come on, Ron,” Lupin said.  “You don’t think we were allowed to come over here without bringing loads of food from your mother, do you?  Oh, incidentally, Hermione, if you could give them the address. You are the secret keeper, of course, and Molly’s going spare over at Muriel’s without a word from you all.  I had quite a telling off for not being able to divulge the secret to her.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Yes, yes, of course.  I hadn’t realized.  Still, I think Harry would prefer to decide for himself when he’d like visitors.”

“What do you mean, at Muriel’s?” Ron asked suddenly, interrupting her.

“Well, they couldn’t stay at the Burrow once you three had escaped.  Now the Death Eaters know you’re both with Harry, it wasn’t safe.  After we’d found Harry, we got everyone to Muriel’s.  No one can go to work now, of course, but everyone’s safe at least.”

Hermione watched as Ron’s eyes darkened and his lips pressed into a thin line, looking grim.  Remus saw it, too, and clapped Ron on the back. 

“How ‘bout breakfast then, eh?” he asked, steering Ron out of the room by his shoulders. 

Hermione watched them retreat, worried for Ron again, at how he was coping.  Sighing heavily, she turned back to Madame Pomfrey who was back tending to Harry.  She observed silently as Madame Pomfrey worked, surprised that she didn’t appear to mind Hermione’s presence during Harry’s examination, but she reasoned, she and Ron had been nursing Harry all this time as well. 

Madame Pomfrey checked the lymph nodes in his neck, underarms, and groin for swelling, pressing the pads of her fingers into his bruised skin.  Then she palpated his stomach and other organs while Hermione watched. 

Harry moaned in pain when she’d evidently hit a tender spot.  Nodding to herself, she began talking quietly to him. Nattering away at him as she worked, the healer told him what she was doing as she went along. Then she spoke to Hermione.

“I always talk to my patients.  It appears to calm them, lets them know I’m here to help them.  I believe they understand me, even if they don’t remember any of it when they wake.”

“I think that’s true,” Hermione agreed quietly.  “Harry calmed down last night in the tub when Ron was speaking to him.  Well, he yelled at him first, but I think Harry knew it was him.”

“Yes, and Mr. Potter and I have had many conversations like this during his time at Hogwarts.  We’ve spent quite a bit of time together, haven’t we, Harry, dear?” she asked him. 

She spoke with such affection in her voice that it brought tears to Hermione’s eyes. 

“I’m supposed to have a clinical detachment from my patients, of course, but it’s always been particularly difficult with this one.  Most students come into the infirmary with minor spell or potions mishaps, the occasional Quidditch injury. Harry comes in half dead every year, it seems,” she said, smiling down at Harry as she stroked his cheek. “Now then,” she said briskly, after administering some potions to Harry. “I think we can take these bandages off.” 

She set about removing the wrappings from his chest, and then his arms.  Then she poked his ribs, earning herself another moan from Harry. 

“Hmm, still tender, but much better,” she said in approval. 

Next, she removed a jar from her bag and scooped a large amount of clear salve into her hands, rubbing them together to distribute the cream. Hermione’s nostrils filled with the fresh smell of mint.  Then she started rubbing it into Harry’s skin, starting with his face, across his forehead and cheeks, down his nose and under his eyes, then around his jaw.  She moved down his neck, running her hands across his shoulders and down his arms, massaging it into his palms and around each of his fingers before gathering more into her hands and continuing onto his chest, over his ribs, and down his stomach. Harry sighed with contentment at her ministrations.

“Yes, that feels better now, doesn’t it?” she asked him, amusement in her voice, and then to Hermione again.  “This is a wonderful invention of Severus’.  It helps with the bruising and swelling, and has a mild pain reliever as well.  It also works as an astringent, helping to reduce the scarring.  It cleans and disinfects, too, leaving a pleasant cooling effect on the skin.” 

Gathering still more, she worked it over his thigh and down his leg, even rubbing it into the arch of his foot, between his toes and around his heel. Harry curled his toes in response, letting out a little grunt of satisfaction.  And for the first time in days, Hermione smiled. A quick, tiny little smile that was really no more than a quirking of her lips, yet more than she’d felt like doing for so long.

“You do like that, don’t you?” Madame Pomfrey asked him.  “You obviously have very sensitive feet, Mr. Potter, but you can put that away,” she said with a laugh. “I’m flattered, but you’re not strong enough to do anything with that.  Not for a little while anyway.” 

Hermione went red, feeling hot all over at the intimacy of the situation, glancing away from Harry’s obvious arousal. 

“Still,” Madame Pomfrey continued, moving on to his other thigh as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for her to see a patient with an erection. “It’s a good sign, Harry.” 

Casting a body bind on Harry, she levitated him into the air. Turning him carefully, she laid him face down on the bed, and then continued the process on his back, eliciting more painful moans from Harry when she worked the salve into the bruises in the small of his back and around his kidneys.  When she’d finished, she tended the bites on his back and re-bandaged them, then flipped him back over and doctored his arms and chest before replacing the bandages on his arms. Leaving off the binding around his ribs, she propped pillows behind him so he was slightly elevated, no longer flat on his back.

“There now,” she said, replacing the blanket over Harry’s hips. “His color is much better so we can reduce the blood replenishment to twice a day, but we’ll continue with the others and add a stronger antibiotic for the pneumonia developing in his lungs.  Thank goodness his ribs are healing because he’s going to need to cough that up, and it’s going to hurt.  I’m removing the heavy sedation so he can.  He needs to wake up on his own now.  Keep him elevated so he can work to clear his lungs, dear, and start him on the pain potions if you see he’s struggling.  He’s going to be in a lot of pain.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well then, let’s go down and have a cup of tea, or perhaps some breakfast for you.  Let Harry rest _alone_ on the bed for a bit.”

She’d put particular emphasis on the word “alone,” as she slid her arm around Hermione’s shoulder in a motherly fashion, smiling. 

“I would think you might want to enlarge the bed if you’re all planning on sleeping on it,” she advised with a wink.

Then they went down to the kitchens together, Hermione hot in the face again.

Before they’d left, Hermione had written down the address on a bit of parchment for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, charming the paper to only reveal its contents to the people for whom it was addressed.  Madame Pomfrey, in turn, insisted on installing a house elf from Hogwarts at Grimmauld Place to ensure that she and Ron were eating properly and to be able to fetch her if there was another emergency like the one last night.  They agreed reluctantly, but specifically requested Dobby for the task, though Hermione was still uncomfortable with having a house elf catering to her at all.  She knew Dobby loved Harry, though, and she certainly did want to be able to get to Madame Pomfrey quickly if Harry took another turn for the worse.  Her earlier pronouncement about Harry giving up still weighed heavily on her mind. By lunchtime, Dobby had arrived. 

The elf cried hysterically over Harry for a long while, sobbing while he clutched Harry’s hand, looking ridiculous in his mismatched clothing and tea cozy hat.  But after a while, he’d finally pulled himself together and made both she and Ron some lunch, insisting that she eat, badgering her until she complied. Hermione winced at having him serve lunch to her, trying her best to do everything for herself, but he simply wouldn’t allow it. Then he set about putting the house to rights, which was dusty from being uninhabited for so long, and many of the rooms were in disarray from being searched by the Death Eaters after they’d escaped from the ministry last fall.  It pained Hermione to see him working so diligently, and she finally retreated back upstairs. 

Ron, for his part, seemed totally indifferent to Dobby’s presence.  Madame Pomfrey’s prognosis for Harry, and the news that his entire family had gone into hiding, had turned his mood dark, making him go silent again. She’d helped him remove the bandages on his hands mid-morning, and he hadn’t spoken a word to her since.  He brooded in silence all day, watching her watch Harry, and he actually got up hurriedly and went to the bathroom when she’d decided, after administering his potions, that Harry had been nude for quite long enough. 

Pulling a pair of his boxer shorts from her bag, Hermione struggled to pull them up Harry’s legs. Although she was embarrassed again when she’d finally worked them over his hips, she felt a lot more comfortable afterwards when her eyes fell on the navy blue boxers covering him.  Satisfied with her work, she replaced the blanket, covering him to the chest. 

She certainly didn’t want another incident like the one this morning, with Mrs. Weasley, or Dobby, or anyone else stumbling in on them while they were asleep again.  Harry deserved some privacy, especially now that Dobby and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be joining Lupin and Madame Pomfrey as visitors to the house. 

It struck her that she was being strangely protective of the seclusion she and Ron and Harry had been living in for almost a year, jealous at the idea of sharing either Ron or Harry with anyone else anymore.

This last year had been so difficult, changing and testing their relationships with each other, forging an even stronger bond between them.  It scared her how much she had come to rely on them, both Ron and Harry.  When Ron left them that night in the forest, she’d been devastated, and even though she and Harry carried on without him, there had been a huge hole in their lives with his absence.  The idea of Harry giving up on them now, leaving them forever after everything that had happened in the dungeon, after everything they had been through, caused her to go white with fear.

It was near dark again.  Dobby had brought up soup for them when they didn’t appear at dinner.  Both her own and Ron’s internal clocks were off kilter since their capture, neither of them having had nearly enough sleep in the last few weeks.  Dobby waited for them to eat it all, undoubtedly on Madame Pomfrey’s orders, before bidding them goodnight. Then Hermione went back to bathing Harry’s forehead in cooling rags to help manage the fever that just wouldn’t break. 

Harry had gone from totally lifeless to restless without the heavy sedation Madame Pomfrey had him under before, showing more signs of pain than he had in all their time here.  The wheezing in his chest had grown into a disturbing rattling sound every time he drew breath. Occasionally, he would interrupt the silence with a wet cough which caused him to gasp and moan in pain, trying to curl into himself on the bed and her to wince in sympathy. 

She began talking to him quietly as Madame Pomfrey had done, stroking his hand so he knew she was there, telling him that he was the most stubborn person she had ever known, and that he’d never given up in the dungeon, he didn’t need to start now.  But she didn’t know how much more of the paralyzing fear she could handle before she broke. Constantly she watched for any sign of improvement in him or of confirmation that he was giving in.  Instead it felt like everything was getting worse, that he was getting worse, that Ron was getting worse. When she glanced up at Ron, she saw that he was crying, sitting hunched in the chair.

Hermione was so taken by surprise that she just sat there with her mouth open, unsure what to do or say.  He’d been so calm while she’d been falling apart all over the place, so in control last night with Harry while she’d lost her head completely.  She’d come to rely on his strength, though she knew he was struggling recently.  He wiped furiously at his face with his newly healed hands, his ears going red with anger or embarrassment.

“I’m so tired of sitting around here watching him die!” he said suddenly.  “I’m tired of being useless, of being so fucking afraid all the time.”

Hermione let out a little cry of surprise at the fierce anger in his voice.

“I used to be so jealous of him, Hermione,” he admitted more quietly.  “I wished I could be him, you know?  The Boy Who Lived.  I wanted to be the one who was famous, the one everyone talked about.  But I couldn’t have done the things he did in that dungeon.  Couldn’t have endured what he did.  The Cruciatus…” He hesitated, shaking with remembered pain.  “It was awful… and I feel like shit because I wouldn’t have been able to handle what they did to him.  I feel like shit because I couldn’t stop it from happening to him.”

His voice was building, his words spilling out of him faster and faster.  “But I’m angry at him, too, because I couldn’t stop what he did to you, angry that he didn’t get us out of there sooner if he’d had all that power… Why did he have to wait so long?” he cried, his voice cracking, fighting the tears that were rolling down his face quicker than his hands could wipe them away.

“No, Ron, no!” she wailed.  “Harry couldn’t control it.  It was accidental magic, you know that.” She was crying now, too.

“I know—”

“And he was protecting me from Greyback, Ron.  Gr… Greyback would have… he would have…” She was shuddering all over at the image of him touching her now, fighting the memory of what had happened there, of the terror she’d felt then.

“I KNOW,” he bellowed, and he actually grabbed handfuls of his own hair in his fists.  “I was so terrified they would come for me, or you, and I… I was relieved when they took him every day.” Ron was crying again in shame, letting the tears stream unchecked down his face as his confession was being wrenched from him. “I was so afraid they would do to me what they did to him.  I couldn’t do anything to stop it!   And no one from the Order came for us,” he sobbed, heartbroken with grief. 

She came around the bed then, finally able to move again from the stunned paralysis she’d found herself in since she’d first seen him crying.

“So Harry was the one who had to get us out of there, and here we are, but I still can’t do anything.  I couldn’t stop them hurting him.  I couldn’t stop him hurting himself.  I can’t stop the Dark Lord ripping through his mind.  I can’t stop the infection ripping through his body.  I’m just helpless again, like I was then in that fucking dungeon, just watching what’s happening, watching him die.  Not able to do a damn thing!” he said savagely.

Hermione was on her knees now in front of him, her hands on his thighs, devastated at the agony in his voice.

“When I left… when I left that night in the tent,” he continued more quietly, his head in his hands, unable to look at her, “I knew immediately I’d fucked up, Hermione.  Knew I wanted to come back, that I’d made a huge mistake.  But then I couldn’t find you, and when I did, I didn’t know if either of you could ever forgive me.”

She was shaking her head in denial of his words, her heart shattering for him.  

“I told myself that I’d never walk away from him again, Hermione, not from either of you.  Even now, even though a part of me hates him for what he did to you, wants to kick him in the balls for hurting you, I won’t abandon him again, no matter what.”

“You mustn’t blame him, Ron. They made him… what Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters forced him to do… it wasn’t Harry’s fault—”

“Now my whole damn family’s in hiding, just like me, and you, and Harry,” he continued, cutting her off.  “But I’m done sitting around waiting, useless. I’m done being afraid,” He wiped his eyes again and sniffed, a blazing look coming into them as he stared into hers. “I’m in love with you, Hermione,” he confessed suddenly.  “I have been forever, but I’ve been afraid to tell you.  Afraid you wouldn’t want me, didn’t love me back.  But even if you don’t…I had to tell you,” he blurted out.  “In case there isn’t another chance.” He seemed terrified, shocked at his own startling admission.

“I’m so sorry for what happened,” he apologized, laying his hands over hers as she sat on her heels in front of him, staring up at him with her mouth open in stunned amazement.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it… couldn’t protect you.  I’m sorry I’m not Harry,” he whispered, staring at his lap again. 

Without realizing she’d done it, she’d gotten to her knees again, slid her hands from his, onto his face, and pulled him to her. Sliding between his parted knees, her lips were suddenly on his, breaking off whatever other nonsense he’d planned to say.  It took him by surprise, and he sat frozen in disbelief for a moment, but then he reacted. Plunging his hands into her hair, he pulled her into him, kissing her back.  Then they broke apart, both of them looking dazed.

“I love you, too, Ron,” she admitted breathlessly.  “It’s always been you.”

They were crying again, kissing through tears and mumbled apologies, clinging to each other.  He kissed her eyes, her lips, her neck, and then it grew into something more. Comfort turned to passion, their lips parted, tongues dancing together while they gripped each other still more firmly. She was nearly in his lap now, both of them breathing hard.  She felt dizzy, her desire for him powerful, overwhelmed at the depth of her emotions, for how much she wanted to be with him.  She’d waited for so long, believing he might never come to her, but here he was, and he said he loved her.

Standing up, she pulled him to his feet and walked slowly backwards towards the bed, pulling him by the hand, her eyes on him.  She didn’t know where her boldness was coming from.  Both of them were red eyed, puffy faced, their noses running from all the crying. Hermione knew she must look a crazed mess, but she didn’t care.  This was Ron, and he’d seen her in every possible state there was. She wasn’t about to start worrying about it now.  Then the back of her legs hit the bed, and she sat, pulling him to her as she lay back against the pillows. 

His eyes searched hers as he leaned over her, his knee on the bed, a hand beside her head, braced above her.  She was grateful that she’d enlarged the bed as Madame Pomfrey had suggested earlier because there definitely wasn’t going to room for the three of them tonight.

Pulling his wand from his jeans pocket, Ron locked the door with a flick of his wrist and a muttered spell, and then followed with an Imperturbable charm and a Muffliato spell before placing it on the side table.  Then he looked down at her again, staring at her, waiting for her permission. A thrill of both fear and desire flooded her, but she wasn’t afraid of Ron. She trusted him completely.

Her heart was pounding when he slowly slid a hand to her waist, hooking her shirt with his thumb and dragging it upwards to expose her belly. His eyes were still on hers, waiting for her to stop him, to tell him it was too soon, that she wasn’t ready.  When she didn’t, he laid his hand flat on her stomach, just above the waistband of her jeans.  Sliding it slowly up, under the thin fabric of her shirt, he stroked her ribs tentatively with the pad of his thumb along the edge of her bra as he leaned down to her. 

His eyes were huge, black with desire. Hermione could see herself reflected in them, could count every one of his copper eyelashes, damp from crying. As he drew nearer, her breath hitched in her chest.

“I’m scared,” he whispered against her lips.

Hermione smiled for the second time that day, smiling at the honesty in his voice, at the vulnerability.  Feeling his body trembling, she marveled at how innocent they both still were even after all they’d been through. It made her want to start crying once again.

“Me, too,” she whispered back, sliding her hands around his neck, into his hair, pulling him down onto her as their lips came together again.

They made love, slowly, clumsily, exploring each other’s bodies awkwardly with their best friend lying unconscious on the bed next to them, their movements making him more restless.  She held Harry’s hand, stroking it with her thumb in rhythm with the tempo of their lovemaking, keeping him calm. His fevered body was so close to theirs that they were both sweating from the heat coming off him while they tried not to jostle him too much. 

They had moments where they sniggered occasionally at the absurdity of the scene, and they were passionate at other times, but it was perfect the whole time, exactly what it should have been.  It didn’t feel weird for Harry to be here with them. She didn’t feel embarrassed that she had no idea what she was doing.  It felt right to be here with Ron like this, in this place, at this moment. 

But it wasn’t the way any of the witch romance novels made it out to be, though she’d never admit to having read the dog-eared copies Lavander and Parvarti always had laying around the dorm they all shared.   For one thing, they were still sniffling, their noses running, which was just about the most unromantic sound there was, she’d decided.  Poor Ron appeared terrified through most of it, too.  Worried that he was hurting her, he almost stopped altogether when she’d had a moment of panic and let out a whimper of fear when he was pressed against her entrance.  

He whispered horror-filled apologies in her ear while she calmed down, and then calmed him down.  And while she wasn’t a virgin anymore, it was still a bit painful when he finally filled her, though it became less so once she’d adjusted around him.  Still her body never achieved the ecstasy of orgasm like those she’d read about. At times, however, the sensation was extremely pleasant.  

The same couldn’t be said for Ron.  Once they’d started to move, he began making the most delicious sounds, little gasps and muffled moans into her ear as he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck, sucking on her pulse point which sent chills down her spine.  He was praising her between stifled moans every time he sank into her, growling deep in his throat when she wrapped her legs around his waist, and she thrilled in the knowledge that she was causing this reaction in him. 

When he was close, he bent his head to her, pressing his forehead into her shoulder, and keening in pleasure.  It was a long, drawn out, desperate sound that made her shiver all over, causing her to arch up into him, to raise her breasts to him. Then he flicked the nipple of the nearest one with the tip of his tongue.  Hermione let out a moan of surprise, clutching his back and Harry’s hand, lifting herself even closer to Ron so that he took her into his mouth.  Then he slid his hand down the side of her body, over her hip, cupping her bottom and trapping her thigh with his arm. She felt goose bumps forming on his back and shoulders, and then he latched onto her nipple, sucking hard when he came, causing her to cry out in pleasure while he held her tightly to him, groaning as all the muscles in his arms tensed and his body convulsed.

It was sexiest thing she’d ever seen, and they were both left panting from the experience.  He was still suckling her, but more gently now, laving the swollen nipple with his tongue as his body relaxed, their heart rates slowed back down, and their breathing returned to normal.

 

* * *

 

Hermione woke very early the next morning, right before dawn. The room was barely lit, gray in the morning light, and she found herself sandwiched between Ron’s naked body spooned behind her and Harry’s nearly naked body in front of her.  Her leg was thrown over Harry’s, her hand curled around his upper arm, the one that was so heavily bandaged.  Ron’s arm was around her waist, his hand cupping her breast, his face nuzzled in her hair, and his warm breath blowing on her neck. 

She actually snorted then, feeling a bit hysterical at the expression she imagined on Madame Pomfrey’s face if she were to come into the bedroom this morning, but she sobered up quickly when she remembered that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley might be arriving today, too. In fact, they might all be standing outside the door right now, waiting for them to unlock it.  So she struggled to extricate herself from between the two boys without disturbing either of them, but found it a nearly impossible job. Finally, she rolled over to face Ron, feeling embarrassed now in the morning light.

“Ron,” she called to him quietly.

His eyes fluttered open. “Hmm?” he mumbled sleepily. “What’s the matter with him now?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling again. “Well, actually, I don’t really know yet.  But we need to get dressed before anyone gets here.”

He came fully awake then instantly, his head whipping around to stare at the door.  Then he turned back to face her. Realizing where they were, what they’d done last night, and that she was pressed against him, both of them naked, he went red all over.

“Hi,” he greeted her shyly.

She felt herself going red then, too.

“Hi.”

He leaned in and kissed her, no more than a light peck really, a good morning kiss, and then he smiled, too. It was a sight Hermione hadn’t seen in a long time.

“We need to get up before Madame Pomfrey or Lupin arrive, or worse, your mother,” she warned him, grinning again when all the color drained from his face.

“Right,” he agreed, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her now. 

She stared at him, admiring the muscles in his back flexing when he reached for his trousers, at the curve of his spine, the breadth of his freckled shoulders as he forced his feet into the leg holes of his jeans.  Then he pulled them on over his hips in one smooth move as he jumped to his feet. 

Walking around to Harry while he did up the fly, he laid his hands against Harry’s face and neck as she had done the previous morning, checking his temperature while she continued to watch him. 

“Still fevered,” he announced, coming back around to her side of the bed and picking up his wand.  “I’ll take the downstairs bathroom then, okay?” 

She nodded as he removed the charms from the door and turned to her, smiling again before stepping into the hall and pulling the door behind him.

When his footfalls faded, she grabbed a pillow and pulled it over her face, utterly mortified again.  Feeling ridiculous at how childish and immature she felt at this moment, for how much she wanted to smile and keep smiling at her newfound happiness.  She pressed the pillow into her face, muffling the sound as she yelled into it.  Then she threw it onto the floor and turned to face Harry. 

“You need to wake up now, Harry,” she told him, propping her head on her hand. “Something’s happened, and I need my best friend right now to talk to.” 

She actually laughed then at the look of horror she imagined on Harry’s face if she actually did try to talk to him about having sex with Ron, but she stopped quickly as she watched him.  Seeing him struggling so hard to hang on, fighting against the whole world it seemed, the smile slid from her lips.  She continued to lay there propped up on her side, watching him, listening to his rattling breath, coming back to the reality of their situation. 

Leaning in then, she kissed him lightly on the lips, the same good morning kiss Ron had just given her.  Then she slid from the bed and made her way to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Madame Pomfrey arrived after they had both gotten their showers that morning and had already had breakfast downstairs in the kitchen.  Dobby served them more food than either of them could possibly eat, but Lupin wasn’t with her today.  It was apparently too close to the full moon for him, the healer explained. Hermione hadn’t realized how long they had actually been here already. 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley arrived before Madame Pomfrey had finished examining Harry, so Molly fretted over them instead.  It was clear that she was put out with the idea that Dobby was taking care of them instead of her, and that he’d done such a competent job with breakfast that morning. 

When Madame Pomfrey had returned to the drawing room and given the go-ahead, Mrs. Weasley hurried upstairs to see Harry.  Mr. Weasley followed, but returned to the drawing room long before his wife.  Sitting across from them as they sat together on the couch, he talked quietly with them while they sipped tea that Dobby had served. 

Arthur peppered them with questions about what they’d been up to this last year as he obviously knew they had broken into the ministry last fall.  But they couldn’t tell him why they’d gone there, though they did tell him how they’d managed it.  They couldn’t tell him what they’d been doing since then either, though they did dispel a lot of preposterous rumors he’d heard. They couldn’t tell him what they were doing when they were captured, and then they didn’t want to tell him what happened after they were captured.  So the conversation turned to what was happening in the wizarding world during their absence from it, catching up on the events of the world and discussing Snape again and his role, if there was one, in their escape, as he hadn’t been seen by anyone since he fled Hogwarts. 

Molly joined them again finally, her face red from crying, and they stayed another hour before finally departing.  Mrs. Weasley had every intention of staying permanently until Ron insisted that they were all fine and well cared for by Dobby and Madame Pomfrey, promising to let them know as soon as Harry was awake.  So she cried some more as she kissed him on the cheek, hugged Hermione, and reluctantly allowed her husband to steer her towards the door.       

It wasn’t until the following day that Harry’s fever finally broke, and another day still before he showed any real signs of waking.  They seemed to have settled into a routine of sorts, sharing the bed with Harry at night, sharing their days with Dobby and Madame Pomfrey and Ron’s parents, sharing quiet moments with each other when they could. 

But when Harry finally decided to come back to them, it was just the three of them again in Sirius’ room. Hermione was in the chair, curled up, a book on her lap. Ron was sitting propped up on the bed, his legs straight out in front of him, and Harry was lying with his head in Ron’s lap.  His arm was thrown over Ron’s legs, and he was shaking from a terrible nightmare while Ron stroked his sweaty hair back from his forehead and neck.

Slowly opening his eyes, Harry blinked in bewilderment for long moments before glancing around the room.  Then his eyes found hers, those beautiful green orbs focusing on her, and they appeared to glow, the color more intense than she remembered.  Maybe because they seemed so much larger on his face without his glasses, maybe because she hadn’t seen them for so long, but she could see all his emotions cycling through them at seeing her:  first confusion, then fear, then sadness and grief. 

She smiled at him as he continued to stare at her for a long time.  Then finally, he looked up at Ron.

“I need you to get better now, Harry,” Ron told him. “So I can kick your arse, you fuck.”

“Ron!” she admonished, though there was no true malice in his voice. 

Still, she didn’t think poor Harry needed to be threatened the moment he regained consciousness, but it was Ron, after all.  She supposed she ought to be grateful that he hadn’t greeted Harry by thumping him on the top of the head.

Harry stared up at Ron, blinking hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow his emotions. Then tears welled in his eyes, slipping down the sides of his face, and into his hair. Crying silently, he slowly nodded his head.

“Hush now,” she soothed, tears dripping from her eyes now, too, as Ron stroked his hair reassuringly. “Hush now, Harry.  It’s going to be all right.”

For the first time since their capture, she thought it might be.

~ . ~

 

 


	12. Awake

Harry fixed his eyes on the door, refusing to look at Lucius. Dread filled him as he tried to steel himself for what was coming. Willing his heart to stop pounding in fear, he tried to swallow his panic at what he knew was about to happen because this wasn’t his first visit from Draco’s father. 

He held his breath as Lucius dragged the knife pressed against his neck across his collarbone, slicing through the thin fabric of his shirt, deep enough that tiny beads of blood formed in its wake. Harry didn’t make a sound though it stung like hell because this was the game they played. The game he played with himself to keep from going insane. The game he played with the Death Eaters to delay them becoming bored with him and summoning Voldemort before he could get Ron and Hermione to safety or the Order could come and get them the hell out of here. 

_They really need to hurry,_ he thought desperately, blowing the breath out through his nose and drawing in another, his teeth clamped tightly together.  He didn’t know how much more of this he could stand.

Lucius was close to him, watching Harry for signs of pain, eager for every drop of agony he could wring out of him.  Harry knew in the end Lucius would get what he wanted, Harry screaming in pain, but he held off as long as he possibly could.  Every. Single. Time.  Screaming from the start just made it seem that much worse, made it seem to go on that much longer.  Every time Harry had a round with Lucius, he wanted the bastard to have to fight harder to break him again and again while he tried harder to hold on longer and longer. 

Lucius stopped dragging the knife through his skin before he reached his shoulder.  Then he set the blade on its tip, pressed against Harry’s chest, just below the collar bone. Gripping the handle with one hand, he placed his palm on the butt of the knife with the other. Pressing down, he forced the tip into the soft flesh. Harry tensed up, clenching his stomach, stiffening his arms and legs as the tip of the blade broke the skin easily and slowly sank into him.

“Ahhhhhh,” Harry moaned, his legs shaking with pain, clenching and unclenching his fists as beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them again to refocus on the door, letting out a shaky breath as the blade sank deeper into his flesh, into the muscle.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he looked at Lucius now, who was so close to him that Harry could see tiny dark flecks of imperfections in his pale eyes and smell the alcohol on his breath.  He was close enough that Harry could see what having Voldemort as a houseguest was doing to his haughty features, the toll it was taking on him physically. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles underneath. He had a shadow of stubble on his chin, and his usually perfectly groomed hair hung dirty and lank around his pale face. It definitely didn’t appear that these last few years since the Dark Lord’s return had been kind to Lucius.

“I said I was sorry… about your wand already… didn’t I?” Harry hissed through gritted teeth, panting with pain as he fought off the hysteria trying to take hold of him.

Lucius narrowed his eyes in fury at Harry’s cheek, at the reminder of his loss, and at the memory of his emasculation in front of all the Death Eaters.  His nostrils flared as he pressed the knife in still farther, until it hit bone. Harry gasped, his legs jerking, unable to stand still against the pain. Lucius held it there a moment, waiting for Harry to get control of himself again. Then he smiled and began to twist the knife slowly, causing Harry’s eyes to roll up in his head and his body to shake violently. The chains binding him to the wall jangled as he sucked air past his clenched teeth.  God, it hurt.

“FUUUUUCCCKKK,” he growled as Lucius continued to apply pressure, smiling to see the reaction he’d pulled from Harry.

The bastard was pure fucking evil, Harry thought. Furious that he couldn’t stay silent any longer, but he wasn’t screaming yet either, so he was counting it as a win in his column, for now, anyway. But he really did wish Lucius had his wand back right now, or just wished he wasn’t so good with a damned knife.

“I wish… I wish Tom hadn’t taken it from… Oh, God… f... from you, too… I really do,” Harry taunted, panting in pain. “You have… uuhhhnnnn,” he grunted as the knife was wrenched still further, “no… no idea.” 

Trembling all over, sweat pouring off him and hyperventilating from the pain, Harry’s heart pounded wildly in his chest. He didn’t know what was making him do it. Provoking Lucius was only making it worse, yet he couldn’t help but fight back any way he could.  He knew it was why Lucius was here so often; knew how impotent he felt without his wand, and knew he blamed Harry for the position he’d found himself in with Voldemort.  But it was part of the game.  Lucius wouldn’t stop until Harry begged, and Harry taunted him to keep him coming back, to keep him from going after Ron or Hermione, to keep him from summoning Voldemort. 

Lucius wanted to control him, to break him and hand him over to Tom all tied up with a bow, but Harry wasn’t going to let him, not without a fight.

Harry could feel his blood, warm and sticky, running down his chest, soaking into what remained of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans, as Lucius stopped twisting and removed the pressure. His eyes were wild, his teeth bared in fury at Harry. Then, to Harry’s surprise, he removed the knife altogether, sliding it out slowly, agonizingly. Biting down on his lips, Harry breathed erratically through his nose, afraid of what was next because Lucius was really pissed now.  But he wasn’t prepared for what he got. 

Jerking his knee up suddenly, Lucius rammed it into Harry’s crotch with tremendous force. All the air whooshed out of his lungs with the explosion of agony. 

Motherfucker!  Lucius hadn’t used anything but the knife before. Preferring a more refined form of torture, he never appeared to want to get physical enough to work up a sweat, so Harry never saw it coming. 

Harry would have screamed then if he could’ve drawn breath. Instead, he drew his legs up into himself involuntarily, trying to curl into a ball, trying to protect them from further harm.  Hanging now just by his arms, Harry moaned in misery as pain radiated out from his balls, into his gut, down his legs, and still he couldn’t draw a breath as a wave of nausea rolled over him and stars flared in his vision. 

He’d changed his mind. This round definitely went to Lucius.

“Nothing to say now, Mr. Potter?”  Lucius asked with a smirk. Then he stuck his finger into the fresh wound he’d opened on Harry’s shoulder, digging in the flesh.

Harry finally sucked in a great lungful of air and let it out on a scream. 

 

* * *

 

Harry jerked awake, his heart pounding.  Surging with adrenaline, his mouth opened in a scream, but there was no sound.  His whole body was aching in real and remembered pain as he stared wildly around the room. He had no idea where he was. He’d expected to find himself in the torture room at Malfoy Manor, but he wasn’t. Then Hermione was there, leaning over him, stroking his face and hand while he shook all over in terror.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she assured him as she wiped the sweat from his forehead.  “It’s just a dream.  It’s not real.”

But she was wrong.  It was real. He could still feel the ache in his chest from the damage Lucius had inflicted.  He knew that was reality. This, Hermione here with him, lying on a comfortable bed, safe, that was the dream.  That was a trick of his mind. 

After a few more panicked moments, his mind rolled through everything that had happened. Everything he could remember played back for him like a film starting up in his head; captured, tortured, raped.  He remembered Lucius, Bellatrix, Greyback, Snape, Hermione, and Draco, then the Burrow and Grimmauld Place. He remembered staggering into Sirius’s room in a haze of pain, then into the bathroom with the knife in his hands, and then nothing. Then he knew she was real again, once his fractured mind had caught up.  It was the same every time he woke up, the horrible cycle of remembering. 

He had no idea how long he’d been out this time or how much time had passed since he first woke up and found Ron and Hermione with him, safe.  Every time he saw them, he felt confusion, and then shame, fear, and then disgust, regret, and then hope.  It left him miserable with grief and longing, so agitated and in pain, trembling all over when the panic hit that they would finally force another potion down him when he couldn’t get himself under control, when the tears started up at the fear he saw in their eyes, and he would go out again. But he couldn’t understand why they were still with him.  How Ron and Hermione had come to be here at all was a mystery he simply couldn’t fathom. Harry was sure he’d left them in Ron’s room and knew he’d destroyed everything there was between them. Yet here she was again, and he flinched at the memories of what he’d done to her when she went to stroke his forehead again. 

He opened his mouth to tell her how sorry he was, to beg her forgiveness again, but no sound came out, and his jaw throbbed terribly when he tried, his head pounding so that all he managed to get out was a moan of pain. But he was determined to stay calm this time, to keep from panicking, to stay awake, and so he sucked in several shuddering breaths to calm himself, to control the shaking of his limbs. Blinking at the stinging and watering of his eyes, he tried willing his heartbeat to return to normal, to stop freaking out.

“Everything’s okay,” she was saying in that same soothing tone, trying to help him calm down.  “It was just a nightmare. You’re safe now.” 

He blinked again several times. Swallowing hard, he then nodded his head so she could see that he understood her.  Hermione let out a relieved breath of her own. 

“Are you in pain?”

He shook his head, though it made him feel dizzy.  In truth, he ached all over. His head was throbbing, but he didn’t want to fall asleep again. Drawing in another deep, calming breath, he tried to stop the shaking of his limbs, but exhaled into a sudden coughing fit that sent fire searing through his lungs and pain exploding in his ribs, his jaw, and his head.  Rolling away from her, he curled up against the pain, his arm around his ribs, trying to hold himself together as he gasped for breath between each devastating cough while his vision winked in and out.

 

* * *

 

The next time he opened his eyes, it was completely dark in the room, and he was flat on his back.  Blinking slowly, drowsily, he tried to get his eyes accustomed to the dark. Trying to decide where he was then because he was entirely too comfortable to be in the torture room.  Then he heard Ron’s soft snoring nearby. It was a sound so familiar to him from all their time together in the tent this last year, from sharing a dorm at Hogwarts for six years, from sleeping on a camp bed in Ron’s room when he visited over the summer and Christmas holidays. It was a comforting sound, and with his whole body feeling pleasantly numb, he was still too sleepy to care much right now where he was. 

He heard the soft rustle of the sheets, a body shifting next to him and a small sigh. Then a warm hand slid into his, squeezing his fingers slightly while another hand curled around his upper arm. A floral scent filled his nostrils, and he thought of Ginny. Then he knew that he was dreaming. 

It was a bizarre dream where Ginny and Ron were both sleeping nearby.  Ron would never allow him to be this close to her at night, in bed, curled up next to him so closely. Plus, he’d promised Ron he’d stay away from her, but this was a dream, a good dream, and so he squeezed her fingers back, sighed heavily, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He woke up the following morning to find Madame Pomfrey sitting next to him, which left him completely bewildered again. How in the hell did she get here? 

He stared at her, then around the room, then back at her again as he went through the process of remembering once more. Then she spoke to him.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Potter,” she greeted him as she checked his pulse. “You’ve given us quite a lot to worry about this time.” 

Still totally nonplussed at her appearance in Grimmauld Place, Harry just blinked up at her, but she didn’t seem to notice his confusion or his lack of response as she continued to poke him.  Pushing up his eyelids with her fingers, she peered into his eyes, running her lit wand across them so that he could still see the bright streaks of light behind his lids when she released them.  Then she opened his mouth to look at his throat, but he pulled out of her grip. Sucking in a painful breath, he glared at her reproachfully.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she apologized. Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise at her use of his first name. “But I need to look you over.  I know it’s painful.  You’ve suffered through a lot of damage, but I need to check how you’re healing. Just bear with me.” 

He nodded reluctantly, and she reached again for his chin, running her fingers along his jaw bone while he tried to sit still for the examination.

A full hour later, marked by a great deal of pain and humiliation, and she was finally done.  He felt violated again at the intrusive questions and the intimate prodding of her fingers and wand, though he knew she must already be aware of what they’d done to him. Still, he wished he was still asleep or unconscious again during her visit so she could just get on with it without him knowing what she was doing, of having to endure the mortification of her touching literally every inch of his body. 

When she’d removed the bandages on his arms and he saw what he’d done to himself, he felt his face flush in shame, though she didn’t say a word about it.  She asked him to grip her hand as hard as he could with each of his hands in turn. He was terrified when he could barely even flex the fingers on his left hand, the arm he’d carved up so badly, while she checked the damage to his nerves. The skin around it felt strangely numb when she ran her wand along the angry-looking jagged scar, which was red and swollen. Then he sat mutely through her recital of all his injuries and wounds and the progress he’d made on each. And when she’d not mentioned his voice, he pointed to his throat in a silent question.

“Right, your voice. Well, I’m sure it will come back, but it needs time to heal. The vocal chords were very badly damaged, and all the screaming you’ve been trying to do, coupled with the potions we’ve been giving you and the coughing, haven’t been doing you any favors in that department.  I’m afraid it may never sound the same again, but you will regain your speech.  Just give it time.” 

Harry nodded his head at this pronouncement, relieved that he wouldn’t be permanently mute.  He was already becoming frustrated at his inability to communicate.

“Now then,” she said. “I want to start you on a liquid diet for a few days.  Give that jaw a little more time to heal.  But some good warm broth in your belly should feel so much better than just the nourishment potions you’ve been on.” 

Immediately, his mouth began to water at the thought of food. 

“And finally,” she continued. “You need to get up and around as soon as possible, Mr. Potter.  You’ve been immobile for far too long.  Still, don’t push it. You’ll be very weak.  I’ll leave instructions with Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger.” Patting his leg, she stood, gathering her bag.  “I’ll send up some soup, then.  Take care of yourself, dear.  I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then she left the room.

Not five minutes later, Dobby suddenly appeared out of thin air next to Harry on the bed with a loud pop. Harry jerked away from him in alarm. Trying to scream again, his hands flew up to protect himself, and he tumbled backwards off the bed, slamming his head on the bedside table as he went down before landing painfully on his back, which knocked the breath out of him. 

Lying there on the floor as his vision swam, he tried to draw breath into lungs that felt like they’d been flattened by the impact, while trying to understand what the hell had just happened. Then Dobby was beside him again, looking horrorstruck at Harry, tears welling in his enormous tennis-ball-sized eyes.  And then Ron was there, too. Harry flinched at the furious expression on his face as he reached down for him, grabbed him by the upper arms, and pulled him to his feet.  Turning him so Harry’s back was pressed against him, Ron wrapped his arm around Harry’s chest, bracing him in a one-armed hug as he gripped Harry by the shoulder. 

Ron was supporting most of his weight, pinning his arms to his sides, holding Harry upright, which was good because Harry was so dizzy that if Ron let go, he knew he’d slide right back down him to the floor.  His legs were trembling so badly, it felt like someone had cast a jelly legs jinx on them, and he knew they wouldn’t support him at all.  Madame Pomfrey wasn’t lying when she said he’d be weak.

“What the hell, Dobby?” Ron yelled angrily as he probed the back of Harry’s head with his fingers.

Harry jerked in fright again at the anger in Ron’s voice and at the sharp stab of pain from the lump growing on his head as Ron ran his fingers over it. Gripped Ron’s forearm braced across his chest with both hands, Harry tried to steady himself because the room was starting to spin. 

“Oh, sorry, Harry,” he apologized, turning a bewildered and disoriented Harry into him, tucking him into his chest. Then Ron bent slightly and placed his other arm behind Harry’s knees and lifted him, depositing him back onto the bed.

Harry was too stunned at being handled like a rag doll to protest as Ron let go of him and replaced the blanket across his lap, bunching the pillows behind him to prop him up, while Dobby sobbed his apology.

“Dobby was not meaning to scare Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby explained through his tears.  “Dobby was just bringing Harry Potter his soup.  Dobby was so excited to see Harry Potter awake.” He was wailing, pulling on his ears. 

Harry nodded at the elf, trying to let him know it was okay, that he was all right, though he was still stunned at this latest unexpected visitor to Grimmauld Place.  He squinted myopically around again to make sure he wasn’t at Hogwarts instead. 

What the hell had happened here after he’d taken the knife to his arms?  How many others were lurking downstairs?  Was the entire Hogwarts staff taking up residence at Number Twelve now?

Then Dobby ran suddenly towards the wardrobe, ramming headlong into it. Ron yelped in surprise, dashing forward to pick the dazed elf up off the floor, yelling more curses while Harry sat propped on the bed with his mouth open in shock. He was thinking more and more that this whole thing was some elaborate dream his delusional mind had concocted for his own twisted entertainment as his head started throbbing in pain with the beat of his heart and the room continued to teeter on its axis.

“What on earth?” Hermione said as she entered the room and took in the scene: Harry pale on the bed, his eyes huge, round with shock; Ron holding an unconscious elf in his arms; the tray with Harry’s soup left abandoned on the bed.

“The damned elf scared the shit out of Harry, and then just did a runner at the dresser!”  Ron explained in stunned disbelief.  “I couldn’t stop him. He’s a complete nutter, Hermione.” 

Dobby was stirring now in Ron’s arms, coming around again, blinking in confusion.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked him in concern, but he just stared at her in a bemused sort of way, blinking slowly, his mouth still open in surprise. “Right then. Ron, why don’t you take Dobby back downstairs, and get him settled down?  I’ll give Harry his soup before it gets cold.”

“Yeah, all right,” Ron agreed.  “Check his head, though.” He nodded at Harry as he walked towards the door.  “I think he hit it on the table.  It’s bleeding,” he told her over his shoulder as he carried Dobby back out of the room. 

Hermione collected the tray and hurried around to Harry’s side of the bed.  Placing it across his lap, she sat down on the edge next to him. Then pulling his head forward by the back of the neck, she pressed his forehead into her shoulder while she examined the knot throbbing on the back of his skull, clucking her tongue as she ran her fingers over the swelling lump. 

Harry was surprised again, taken aback at how both she and Ron were manhandling him.  They’d become entirely too familiar with his body. Too used to his silent compliance, they didn’t ask his permission, or giving any warning, or anything, before touching him, grabbing him, carrying him, for God’s sake!  It was starting to get annoying.  He was awake now. Didn’t they know?

He jerked when she wadded up the napkin from the tray and pressed it hard against the gash on his head.  Damn, it stung!  She held it there, putting pressure on it to stop the bleeding, pressing his forehead harder into her shoulder for a few more minutes, which felt good on his throbbing headache, before dabbing at it again with the napkin and then releasing him.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, running her hands through his hair, feeling for more injuries. “I don’t think there will be any permanent damage, but Madame Pomfrey will have our hides for this.  Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked, dropping the napkin into her lap.  

He shook his head, which was still resting on her shoulder.  He felt lethargic, his eyes drooping, too much excitement for him for one day, perhaps.  He’d been awake for more than two hours now, which was a record for him, he reckoned.  Still, he was eager to eat some of the soup Dobby brought up that had smelled so delicious. So he lifted his head with effort because it felt like it weighed a lot more than usual, and tried to stop the spinning of the room by clutching the blanket in his fists.

Harry was only able to get about half the soup down before he was feeling extremely full. With his belly rounded up, his eyes grew too heavy to stay open on their own, and his head nodded forward.  The soporific effect of the warm broth in his stomach was just too much for him, or maybe it was from the concussion he suspected he now had from the blow to his head. Either way, he was going out again. He didn’t feel Hermione remove the tray from his legs, or remove some of the pillows from behind his head so he could lie down, or the soft kiss she planted on his lips as she tucked the blanket back around him.

The next time he woke was early evening. It may have been the same day. He didn’t know for sure. Hermione was propping pillows behind him, elevating him while he blinked himself awake and tried to orient himself, once again, to his surroundings. It was getting better though, he decided, understanding coming back to him faster with fewer traumas this time. 

He ached all over again, his back and shoulder stiff and head throbbing from the backwards somersault he’d done off the bed the last time he’d been awake. 

_Now for my next trick,_ he thought stupidly.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Harry, but it’s time for your potions again,” she apologized.

Clamping his mouth shut automatically, he shook his head, still not fully awake.  He didn’t want any more potions, he thought mulishly, childishly.  No more potions, thank you! No potions that made him fall asleep, that made him feel weak and light headed, that made his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton and left his tongue feeling furry. No potions that tasted bad, that tasted like pepper and made him wild with desire for her — and then his mind froze up at the memory, everything coming to a screeching halt, his whole body going stiff. 

His heart started to pound, and his mouth went dry. He was panicking again, trembling all over at the memory of what they’d made him do to her, catching him unprepared at the suddenness of the images flooding through him. And she was much too close to him! He could smell the soap she used on her skin, the shampoo in her hair, filling his nostrils with her scent, making him remember what she smelled like then, what she felt like, his aching body pressed against hers, inside her — NO NO NO!

Kicking out wildly, frantically, Harry tried to scramble backwards, away from her on the bed, though his limbs wouldn’t obey him properly. He was terrified of his body’s response to her, at the arousal he felt stirring in him at her nearness. He was hysterical with fear as she continued to reach for him, looking shocked at his violent reaction. 

Sound was coming from him now, broken, raspy, terror-filled sounds, and a crushing, burning weight was pressing down on his chest. Then he was coughing again, the pain taking his breath away.  Oh, God! He was falling apart, and he couldn’t stop it happening. 

Then Ron was there, holding him down, and he was even more afraid.  Thrashing on the bed now, Harry tried to scream. His hands scrabbled at the back of Ron’s wrists, trying to free himself, but Ron wouldn’t let go.  Lying on top of him, across his chest, Ron pressed him into the mattress as his feet thrummed on the bed in utter terror. 

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” Hermione cried.

Harry’s body immediately went stiff all over from the body bind curse she’d cast, ending his frantic attempt to escape them. The spell held him immobile, but alert, as waves of panic rolled over him, and tears slid from the corners of his eyes into his hair.  Remembering when Bellatrix held him under this curse in the torture room, he remembered the _lessons_ she’d taught him then. 

He wanted them to give him the fucking potions now, or to knock him in the head, stun him, obliviate his memory, something, anything to knock him out again, to stop the memories of that place, of what they did to him, and of what he did to her. But they didn’t. They talked quietly to him, trying to calm him down again while his mind bombarded him with horrific images from the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.

Ron whispered quietly to Hermione as he held her while she sobbed into his shoulder.  She was crying, and it was his fault. He’d made her cry again like he had done then, but he didn’t mean to.  He’d tried not to hurt her. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t tell her how sorry he was, though he was screaming it in his head, over and over again. Telling them both that he was sorry, he was so sorry.

It was several minutes before Hermione stopped crying on Ron, and even longer before the fear and panic flooded out of Harry, leaving him exhausted. Yet still, they didn’t release him.  He continued to lay frozen on the bed as Hermione and Ron left it, walking around the room, out of his limited line of sight. It made him feel afraid again. Afraid that they wouldn’t come back, that they’d finally had enough of him, Harry feared that they had come to their senses and left him for good.  But then they were both beside him once more, standing over him. Hermione lifted the spell at last, and his limp body sank into the bed.

“All right,” she said, sniffling. “Let’s try this again. Everything’s going to be okay, Harry.  Ron and I aren’t trying to hurt you,” she told him sternly, sounding like she had a bad head cold.

Harry slowly nodded his head as she wiped at her eyes. 

“We’ll take it more slowly then, all right?” 

He nodded again. 

“Right, then, let’s get you propped back up.”

Only it was Ron who leaned over him this time, not Hermione. Sliding his arm under Harry’s neck and lower back, Ron pulled him upwards while Harry awkwardly tried to help push himself up with his hands and elbows. And Harry felt considerably less panicked at Ron’s touch instead of Hermione’s. Ron scooped pillows behind him until he was almost sitting before releasing him.

“Okay. This potion is an antibiotic for your infections, particularly in your lungs,” Hermione announced, holding up a bottle. “We’re going to give you a dose of this.” 

Harry nodded again, signaling his compliance as she pulled the stopper and poured out a dose into a spoon. Opening his mouth to accept it, he grimaced as he swallowed it down, but was relieved to find himself still calm. 

“Good. Now this one’s a blood replenisher.”

Harry accepted it, too, without complaint.

“This one’s for pain…” But he was shaking his head already. “Harry, I know you’re in pain,” she argued, but he shook his head again, refusing point blank to take it. 

“Fine.” Clearly, she was deciding it was better not to try and fight him, he thought with relief. “One more, then,” she continued, holding up a fourth bottle.“This one is a nourishment potion, all right?” she asked. 

He stared at it suspiciously a moment, and then nodded again, opening his mouth willingly when she poured out a spoonful. 

“Wonderful, Harry,” she praised him after he swallowed it down. “That was wonderful.”

It made him feel like a dog that had just learned a new trick, or like Crookshanks when he’d brought Hermione a dead spider he’d just caught. Harry frowned at her.

Ron smiled at the look on his face before rolling his eyes at Harry in a familiar gesture that clearly said, _She’s mental, that one._ Then he clapped his hands together and said, “All right, then. More delicious broth for you for dinner, and then you’re getting your nails clipped, Harry.” 

Lifting the back of his hands to Harry, Ron showed him the scratches he’d left on them while Hermione called for Dobby, who appeared again suddenly in the room, glancing sheepishly at Harry. She spoke quietly to him for a moment, and he vanished again with a pop, returning moments later with another bowl of steaming broth. It was chicken this time, and Harry’s stomach growled loudly when the scent filled his nostrils, feeling suddenly ravenous again.

Harry stubbornly insisted on feeding himself, but found that he was extremely clumsy, which caused Dobby to have to anxiously mop him up after every bobbled spoonful or dribbled attempt. His hands were still too swollen from sleep and disuse to grasp the spoon firmly enough, even with his good hand. It trembled badly, the spoon clanking against the side of the bowl every time he spooned up another mouthful and tried to steer it towards his lips. It must have looked comical, or just pathetic, but no one said a word. 

Finally admitting defeat, Harry turned the spoon over to Dobby. The elf appeared utterly delighted to feed Harry the rest of the soup, happily poking spoonfuls into his mouth while Hermione took the opportunity to trim his overlong, ragged nails down to the quick.

“There, that’s much better,” Hermione declared when she had finished both hands, and he waved off another spoonful of soup. He couldn’t hold anymore.  Dobby seemed distressed that he hadn’t finished it all, but he just couldn’t.

Hermione touched the tip of her wand to his stomach, muttered a spell, and his bladder emptied suddenly. Harry jerked in surprise, letting out a tiny squawk of indignation, though she took no notice. He was feeling light headed again, his eyes suddenly heavy as Dobby removed the tray. Then he realized that Hermione had put the pain potion in his soup, or had Dobby do it for her. 

_Shit_ , he thought. That was low, even for her, and he’d seen her do some pretty devious things.

“Tomorrow,” she announced unapologetically at the look of dawning comprehension on his face. “You’re getting out of this bed, Harry, and getting a shave. You’re going to get a proper bath and have that hair washed, too.  Honestly, it’s starting to look like Snape’s.”

_Snape_ , he thought, trying to fight off the potion’s effects, the mention of his name jarring a memory loose. He needed to tell them something about Snape, and Lucius, too. But his mind was working too slowly now, shutting down. 

Snape wasn’t who they believed he was. He’d tried to rescue them… well, him, anyway. The fucking git! And Lucius… Lucius was dead. Voldemort had killed him.  Harry had seen it, he’d felt it.

~ . ~


	13. Healing Harry

“How positively Slytherin of you, Hermione,” Ron said, watching as Harry’s head drooped forward, and his hands fell limp at his sides. “Harry’s going to be really pissed when he wakes up, you know.”

“Well… well,” she said defensively, biting her lip, her cheeks going scarlet. “He needs his potions, Ron. I know he’s in pain. He’s just so stubborn, and I knew I couldn’t make him take it on his own, not after what just happened.”

“Maybe, but still… he’ll probably never trust you again after this,” he told her with a shrug, tugging the extra pillows from behind Harry’s head and easing him down onto the mattress, his body totally relaxed in sleep. “He’ll start looking at everything you give him from now on like it came from Fred and George,” he said, and he heard her huff out a breath of indignation.

Pulling the blanket up to Harry’s chin, Ron studied him a minute. He’d lost so much weight, and he was thin to begin with.  A year on the lam hadn’t been kind to any of them in that department. They were all thinner than normal, but these last few weeks had been especially cruel to Harry. The bones in his face were too prominent, his cheeks hollowed out, his eyes sunken, appearing too large for his face when they were open.  Closed, however, the dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, the creases around them relaxed in sleep made him seem so much younger and untroubled. The cuts and bruises were finally healing, and his color was returning to normal, too, but he still looked so frail. 

It was hard to imagine, looking at him now, how much power he actually had. Not physical power, Ron thought. He could take Harry in a fistfight any day. He was quite a bit taller and stockier than Harry. The thing was, that Harry could take a beating and just get right back up again. It probably came from having that whale for a cousin, but Harry was tougher than shit. The damn tosser didn’t know how to quit, it seemed. You’d have to knock him smooth out or he would just wear you down, exhaust you completely and then sucker punch you in the gut just when you thought you’d finally finished him. He was a sneaky little bastard like that. 

He had a shitload of magical power, though. Ron had seen it up close. He’d felt it bubbling under his skin while he tried to hold him in the bath. He’d felt it pushing against him again tonight before Hermione had the good sense to cast a body bind curse on him. That much power was what frightened Ron right now. Harry’s magic was out of control at times, dangerous when he was out of his mind, and tonight it appeared to be directed at Hermione. Now that Harry was awake, things were getting even more complicated. 

It wasn’t like he assumed Harry would wake up and everything would just go back to normal.  They were all still recovering from some really fucked up shit.  Harry more than Hermione, and Hermione more than him, but he remembered what Rudolphus looked like in the dungeon so close to him. He remembered the smell of his hair and flesh burning with those unnatural flames. And he remembered the madness in Harry’s eyes when it was over, too. A wildness about them when he’d faced Draco that spoke of his deadly intent. He’d seen that look again tonight as he’d fought to hold Harry down, and it scared Ron shitless. 

Harry could’ve killed them all there in the dungeons. He could have killed them here tonight, too, if he’d wanted. But they couldn’t keep him in a full body bind or drugged up forever, and Ron didn’t know how in the hell he was going to keep them all alive while Harry recovered. 

Ron didn’t want to admit it, but after the first few times Harry had woken up and gone completely mental, he was starting to think it may have been kinder if they hadn’t found him in time, kinder to have just let him die like he’d wanted. It had been hard as hell to watch him suffer then, in the beginning when he was unconscious, but it was so much worse to watch him suffer now when he was awake. He had moments of lucidity, though, moments when he seemed like Harry again, moments where he knew where he was and who they were.

Hermione had sunk into the chair, looking miserable again. She’d been devastated at Harry’s reaction to her earlier. Leaving Harry’s side, he went to her, pulling her up out of the chair by the hand.  He sat down himself and wordlessly pulled her back down onto his lap. Curling into him, she pulled her knees up, her socked feet resting on his thigh, and leaned her head on his shoulder, tucked into his neck. 

“I don’t know how to help him, Ron,” she confessed miserably, sighing deeply, her warm breath on his throat. He wrapped his arm around her knees, holding her there, and resting his chin on her head. “He seemed fine, better than usual when I woke him up, but then he just lost it,” she told him, trembling again, on the verge of tears once more. 

Running his hand up her back, into her hair, Ron squeezed her neck at the base of her head, rubbing hard on the tense muscles he found there. She sighed again, relaxing into him.

“I know,” he replied. “He’ll get better, Hermione.  He will.” He continued to stroke her neck, then down between her shoulder blades, working the tension out of her. “Tomorrow will be better.  You’ll see.” 

She was moaning softly in appreciation of what his hands were doing, and he felt himself growing hard at the sound.  He knew he was a prat, but he couldn’t help it. He was a teenage boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon, apparently, and the girl he was hopelessly in love with was sitting on his lap. 

If they were still at Hogwarts, he’d be trying to drag her into deserted classrooms and abandoned corridors between every lesson, stealing touches and kisses and moments with her when he could. As it was, he wanted to take her in every room of this house. In the bathtub, on the kitchen table, on the floor, up against the wall, right now sitting in this chair. It was a constant buzzing in his head when she was close to him, and if they were normal teenage lovers, he knew that’s exactly what he would do. But they weren’t. Everything was different for them.  They’d been through too much to be that carefree. They had too much responsibility on them still, and they had so much further to go before they were through. 

Ron envied their counterparts at Hogwarts, whose biggest concern was being caught after curfew, snogging in a broom closet by Filch, a professor, or a Prefect. They still had two more Horcruxes they had no idea how to find and the snake before Voldemort himself, and it sure felt like they were sliding backwards instead of going forward right now. Worse, he didn’t know if he even believed what he was telling Hermione about Harry.  Ron felt his hope dwindling.  He didn’t know right now if Harry would ever get better, if he could ever gain back all that he lost in Malfoy Manor and be strong enough to fight Voldemort. But then he remembered that he’d lost his hope in the dungeons, too, there in those last hours. He’d been sure it was over for all of them when they had brought Harry back in, beaten all to hell, after the fight or whatever they heard in the corridor outside. A whole room full of Death Eaters surrounded him like an honor guard, practically carrying him into the room. 

Ron knew then that they were going to kill Hermione and him, knew their time was finally up.  He could see their fate it in the eagerness of their faces. They were going to kill both of them and make Harry watch.  He was certain of it.  He just didn’t know the cruel games Bellatrix wanted to play before she finished them.

Squeezing his eyes closed at the memories, Ron tried holding them back. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to see the images played back for him in his mind over and over again, to feel the fear, to remember how it felt to watch Harry take Hermione. He didn’t want to hear her crying, to remember the feeling of the Cruciatus curse coursing through him and boiling the blood in his veins. He didn’t want to see Harry screaming anymore; to see his whole body glowing as Greyback held him. But he did. 

Watching through the distortion of the shield Harry protected them with, he saw again the wave of energy explode out of him like a bomb, knocking everyone down around him, knocking them unconscious. The force of it was so strong that it bounced against the shield he held over Ron, kicked up a cloud of dirt from the floor, and rattled the chains holding him to the wall.  Then the whole room was engulfed in flames, including Harry himself while Ron watched in terror. 

He’d been wrong then, wrong to lose hope. It wasn’t Hermione and him that were finished that day. Harry wasn’t finished.  Ron had underestimated him. The Death Eaters had underestimated him. Bellatrix should’ve knocked him out cold when she kicked him in the face and broke his nose and jaw because Harry had gotten back up again, just like he always does, and landed the mother of all sucker punches. Rudolphus and Macnair and Dolohov didn’t live to regret it, he thought with satisfaction, but Avery and Greyback and Bellatrix did, and they would surely never forget it, either. Ron certainly wouldn’t. Not until the day he died.

Ron could feel his chest tightening at the thought, his eyes stinging from the memory, the oppressive fear melting off him.  And he knew then that Harry would get better again, that they would get past this because Harry wasn’t finished.

Hermione sighed again, turned her face into his neck and kissed him. He let his head fall back against the chair, relaxing into it, and she ran a hand into his hair. Instantly his thoughts were completely focused on her again, the horrors of the dungeons banished to the back of his mind, left to torment him another day. Right now he wanted to concentrate on the feel of her in his arms, the softness of her lips against him, the tingling of his scalp where her fingernails scratched lightly. HHe gripped her tighter, his fingers flexing automatically on her back as she slid her mouth over his neck, not caring any longer if Harry was burning the whole house down around them. It could wait, he decided. A bloke had priorities and Harry wasn’t it right now.  Not any longer. Not for the rest of the night if they were lucky, thanks to Hermione. 

Without a word, never taking her mouth from the cord of his neck, she pointed her wand at the door, and without even looking at it, she locked it with a quick flick of her wrist. Ron groaned, his trousers pinching him painfully from his growing erection. It was practically an invitation to grope her, and he was more than willing.

Pulling her legs down, he shifted both of them so that she was straddling him now, eager to rub himself against her. He ran his hands up her back, and then back down to her hips, gripping her as he pressed himself up into her.

“Mmmmmm,” he moaned, closing his eyes. It felt so good to be this close to her, to feel the friction he was creating between them. “I love you, Hermione,” he breathed, and she rolled her hips in response, still kissing her way up his neck towards his ear, leaving his neck damp from her tongue.  He shivered when her breath ghosted over it, and she ground herself into him again. 

“Oh, hell,” he groaned, lifting his head suddenly and capturing her lips with his in a fierce kiss, grasping the back of her head with one hand to hold her in place while still holding her hips to him with the other and arching up into her. She opened her mouth on a moan, and he slipped his tongue inside, sliding it against hers, trying to control the frenzy that was building in him as he devoured her mouth.

Grasping the hem of her shirt, Ron pulled it upwards, needing more, needing to feel the softness of her skin against him, and they broke apart when he went to pull it over her head. Good God, she was beautiful with her hair wild all around her, her lips swollen and red, her eyes dark with lust, both of them panting with desire.

It was still early in the evening, the light in the room dim, casting long shadows on the floor, but he could see her so well, see so much more than he’d been able to before, their previous lovemaking occurring under the cover of darkness. Her skin seemed so dark against the white fabric of her bra. He stared at her, drinking her in as she slid her hands behind her back, causing her breasts to swell over the cups of her bra as she undid the clasp, and he marveled at how easily she did it. He’d struggled with it every damned time he’d try to undo the infernal thing so that he was sure the designers were having a laugh at how frustrated it made him. 

It felt like everything was moving in slow motion, and he was trying to commit each detail to memory as one of the straps slid down her shoulder. He trailed a finger slowly down her chest from her throat, down between her breasts as she watched him, her hands still behind her back, hesitating, embarrassed maybe. Pinching the fabric with his thumb, Ron pulled the bra down from the middle, sliding it slowly down her arms, sliding it off her, exposing her breasts to him. She pulled her arm through the strap and let it fall to the floor. 

He gazed at her then, seeing her fully for the first time since that terrible day in the dungeon.  But this time was only for him. This time she was in control. This time she was giving herself to him, not having it taken from her, not being forced.  She was so perfect, so beautiful. Reaching up, he cupped her, running his thumb over her nipple, watching as it puckered, he tip hardening under his touch.  Her nipples were so responsive, and he was completely obsessed with them.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered in awe, and then he leaned down to taste it, exploring the feel of it on his tongue as it continued to harden, the skin tightening when he swirled the tip of his tongue around the dusky center.  She moaned again, arching into him when he sucked it into his mouth, pulling hard while he rolled the other nipple between his thumb and finger, kneading the flesh. 

Hermione was rocking her hips over him, and he was feeling frantic again, his head buzzing with desire for her. Her hands were in his hair, holding him to her breast while he suckled her. Then they were on his shirt, trying to pull it off him.  He reluctantly released the suction of his mouth against her, letting the swollen nipple fall from his lips, already missing the contact with her as he reached over his head and yanked his shirt off before tossing it to the floor to join hers. 

Then they were kissing again, passionately, her breasts crushed against him. He could feel her nipples, still hard, damp from his tongue, against his bare flesh. Groaning into her mouth, he clutched her back, trying to pull her even closer to him. 

Ron was so hard it hurt. He wanted to be free of the jeans that were constricting him, to feel her around him. Shaking all over with need, he growled at the vivid image of the picture they made together like this in his head.  Then she was pulling away again, climbing off of his lap to stand in front of him. 

Grasping his hand, she made to move to the bed, but he held her by the hand, resisting the pull. That wasn’t what he had in mind tonight. He didn’t want to worry about how much they were disturbing Harry, trying to go slowly, quietly. He needed something more tonight. She needed more, he thought, to make her come because he knew she hadn’t yet. So he pulled her back to him, to stand between his legs as he scooted to the end of the chair.

As he looked up into her face, his hands fumbled with the zipper on her jeans, feeling like everything was slowing down again as he peeled the denim down her legs. Neither of them spoke, both staring at each other as she stepped out of them, leaving her in just her knickers, almost completely bare in front of him in the fading light. Then he slid his hands back up her smooth legs, running his fingers tantalizingly along the elastic of her panties from the back of her thighs around to the front. She sucked in a breath, shaking all over, still holding his eyes. 

Sliding his fingers under the elastic at each hip then, he hooked the fabric with his fingers and pulled, dragging them slowly down her legs, revealing her most intimate parts to him, until they too dropped to the floor and she stepped out of them. Still, he held eye contact, gazing up into hers, which were nearly black, round with anticipation and maybe a little fear.

He ran his hands up the back of her thighs, over the firm globes of her arse. His movements were slow and deliberate, trying keep her from panicking and bolting away from him.  He couldn’t let her get away now.  He was too far gone, acting on instinct alone. His entire being focused on her as he pulled her towards him until he pressed his mouth against her soft curls. Clutching her backside tighter, his fingers digging into the flesh, he squeezed as she made to move away from him with a gasp. 

Holding her in place, he breathed in deeply, flooding his senses with the smell of her arousal, with her essence. She was trembling all over, whimpering above him as he stuck out his tongue. Desperate to taste her, he ran it across her folds, parting them with the tip, feeling the warm wetness of her center as he gathered it on his tongue. She jerked, crying out when he slid over a tiny nub near the top, her hands suddenly back in his hair, clutching him to her. 

Fuck!  His jeans needed to come off right now!  He was straining so badly against them it felt like they’d shrunk two sizes, but he didn’t want to stop. He wanted more of her, all of her. Rolling his tongue around, he found that spot again, growling in the back of his throat when she granted him that same delicious reaction. And he knew that he’d found a new obsession; something he liked even more than her breasts, a taste he liked more than anything he’d ever tasted before. 

Lapping at her with his tongue, Ron rubbed against her with his nose, sucked on that magical little spot, that fantastic nub of hers, until she was shaking uncontrollably. Keening above him, she tugged painfully at his hair until she couldn’t take it anymore and pulled his head away from her.

“I need,” she breathed, panting hard, looking desperate. “I need you.”

Ron stood up quickly, happy to oblige, desperate himself as he slid his own jeans and boxers off with shaking hands. Then he pulled her flush against him. Finally, finally feeling her bare skin against his own fevered flesh, he ground himself against her in a frenzy.  He needed her, too, badly, more than anything. 

Stepping backwards, he pulled her with him as he sat back in the chair. She came with him automatically, straddling him, sliding her hands behind his neck. Both of them were so ready that he only had to hold his cock steady as she lifted her hips over him. Taking him into her, she surrounded him finally with that delicious heat. They both cried out as she sank down onto him.  Feeling like he was deeper inside her than he’d ever been, Ron thought he might explode before they even moved. 

Then she did move, rocking her hips against him, and his eyes rolled up in his head.  He clutched at her hips, his mouth open, but no sound or breath came out, until he saw stars. It was even better than the image he’d conjured in his mind. It felt so fucking fabulous for her to be setting the pace, for her to be riding him, fucking him with almost no effort at all on his part except the straining in his thighs as he arched up into her and the muscles in his arms as he held her by the hips, pulling her back into him every time she rocked back. 

He knew he wasn’t going to last long. He could already feel it building in him, though she was still rocking agonizingly slowly over him, so that he was whimpering, begging her without words. Pleading with the hands gripping her waist, he tried to pull her into him harder, faster, crazy with the desire to slam himself into her. 

She pushed away from him then, her hands braced on his shoulders, arching her back, and he’d had enough. He slid his hand from her waist, licked his thumb and middle finger and pressed them between their joined bodies, searching for that spot.

“Oh, GOD!” she yelped, letting him know he’d found it. She rocked over him again, shaking all over as he pressed against it hard, letting it slide between his slick fingers, pushing against her as she ground herself into him.  And she was moving faster then, finally, mercifully, her lip pulled between her teeth, her eyes closed, moaning desperately. 

He wanted to take her nipple into his mouth again as he watched them swaying with her movements, but she was pushing against him, and he couldn’t reach them. So he grasped one hardened nipple with his free hand and tugged, his other still pressed against her core, and then it was her turn to whimper, her turn to beg.  His body stiffened, arching up into her, giving her as much access as he could when her movements became more erratic. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders as her mouth fell open. Her face went red, and then with a strangled cry, she came. Her whole body was shuddering, her inner muscles gripping him rhythmically, and he exploded inside her, yelling his own release.

“Holy shit,” he panted, going limp in the chair when they’d both stopped spasming.  “That was incredible!” His heart was beating wildly in his chest.  His ears were ringing, and he felt light-headed from the sheer force of his orgasm. Hermione, too, looked shocked as she fell onto him, both of them gasping for breath, their bodies slick with sweat, utterly exhausted.

Stoking her back lazily as their breathing returned to normal, he pulled strands of damp hair from her neck as he went soft still nestled inside her. He held her while she lay on top of him until he thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she finally stirred, glancing up at him.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” she confessed on a whisper, color blossoming across her cheeks.

“Me either,” he replied truthfully. “That was better than the first time… which was fucking fantastic!” he said earnestly, and he felt her shaking with suppressed laughter.

“We need to get up,” she said then, yawning. “I’m about to fall asleep here.”

“I don’t mind,” he told her, stroking her back again, though he was feeling uncomfortably sticky, and he could stand to take a piss.  Still, he’d stay right here all night if that’s what she wanted. But she was already sitting up, crawling off him to stand on unsteady legs.

“Woah,” he said. Sniggering, he grasped her hand to steady her, but she batted him away and staggered to the bathroom.  Pulling himself out of the chair with a groan, Ron gathered up their discarded clothes, throwing them into the chair.

“I’ll take the middle tonight,” he announced when she’d returned. “Just to make sure everything’s okay with Harry in the morning.” Hermione stood there staring at him a moment, the corners of her mouth turning down, but then she finally nodded. “Good,” he said, relieved that she didn’t fight him on this. He didn’t want to worry about it all night. Grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms from her bag, he headed to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Ron opened his eyes the next morning to find Harry staring at him. He was lying on his side, facing Harry, and Harry was on his back, his head turned to Ron, watching him sleep.  Running a hand over his face, Ron yawned hugely. He hadn’t slept at all well. Being in the middle sucked, he decided. You couldn’t stretch out, and there was always someone pressed against you, their knee in your back or their arm thrown over your chest. 

Peering at Harry, Ron tried to decide if he was really awake, if he knew where he was, how pissed he might be, or if there was any crazy in his eyes.  After a moment, he decided there wasn’t.

“Hey, mate,” he greeted him. Pushing himself up by the elbows, he then turned to check on Hermione. She was still asleep, facing away from him, her bushy hair fanned out around the pillow. He stroked it once, pulling it off her face and turned back to Harry. “You ready to get out of this bed today?” he asked on a whisper.

Harry nodded his head, clearly eager.

“Yeah, I bet you are.  Let me take a piss, and then we’ll get you up, okay?”

Harry nodded again, pointing at himself.

“You need the bathroom, too?” he asked.

Harry nodded his head vigorously, looking relieved that Ron had understood him, but then winced. His head must be hurting, Ron thought, but good luck getting him to take another pain potion after last night. 

“All right, let me go first, if you can, and then I’ll help you, okay? Unless you want me to just use the spell?” he asked, but the look on Harry’s face clearly said how he felt about using the spell to empty his bladder. “Give me a second then,” he said, smiling.

Though getting out of the bed proved a bit more difficult than he’d imagined because he didn’t want to disturb Hermione, so he ended up crawling over Harry to get off the bed. Being in the middle definitely sucked, but Harry didn’t appear to mind too much having Ron crawl all over him, even with a full bladder and a throbbing headache. Still, Ron hesitated at his side when Harry turned his head to stare at Hermione. He seemed surprised to find her there, but not frightened yet.

“Okay?” he asked worriedly.

Harry turned slowly back to him, staring at Ron a moment before nodding his head. 

“All right,” he said, though he still hesitated. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried to the bathroom.  He didn’t want to leave Harry alone with Hermione asleep on the bed any longer than he had to. If Harry was going to freak out, he wanted Hermione to be awake and armed.  Ron didn’t pull the bathroom door closed either, and he was back in record time. 

Harry was still lying there, watching Hermione, but the room wasn’t on fire, no one was screaming. So far, so good, Ron thought, as he hurried back to them. Harry turned his eyes back to Ron, and he was glad to see that there was still no crazy in them, that he still seemed lucid right now.

“All right,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get you up then.” He pulled the blanket off Harry’s legs. “We’re gonna do this real slow.  I don’t want you doin’ another header like yesterday. Okay?”

Harry gave him a quick thumbs-up. Probably tired of nodding, Ron assumed. Together they worked to get Harry upright and sitting sideways on the bed with his legs dangling off the side. He was swaying a bit, still wincing with pain. Ron stood between his legs, his hands on Harry’s shoulders while he waited for Harry to steady himself.

“You ready?” he asked, leaning down and pulling Harry’s hands around his own neck.  Lacing his fingers together, Harry shifted his weight on the bed while Ron slid his hands under Harry’s arms, trying to find a spot to grip him that wouldn’t hurt. “Okay, here we go,” Ron announced as he pulled Harry forward, sliding him to the edge of the bed so his toes touched the ground, and then lifted. 

Harry’s fingers dug into the back of Ron’s head as he tried to steady himself on legs that wobbled dangerously, biting his lips in pain. The color drained from his face, so that Ron thought for a moment he would pass out and they would both hit the floor. Standing there for several minutes, their chests pressed together, Ron let Harry get his land legs and catch his breath. Then Ron slid his hands to Harry’s waist and turned himself so they were hip to hip, trying to shift Harry’s weight so they could move towards the bathroom together. 

They made their way there slowly. It took forever, so that they were both breathing hard and sweating. Harry was panting in pain by the time they finally stood in front of the toilet, what little strength he had, now depleted.

“I think it would’ve been a lot easier to use the damn spell, Harry,” Ron told him, blowing out an exhausted breath and wiping his brow.

They shuffled around, Ron trying to figure out how to hold Harry steady and give him a bit of privacy at the same time. Finally settling on sliding his arm around Harry’s chest and turning sideways behind him, Ron braced his fatigued friend against his side. 

 _Poor bloke_ , he thought.  This had to suck for him. 

When Harry had finished, Ron turned again to face him so that he was pressed against Harry’s back. Then he leaned them both down awkwardly to flush the toilet and close the lid.  Turning Harry in his arms, Ron deposited him on the toilet and sat down against the edge of the tub, both of them thoroughly worn out.

“All right,” he said, still breathing hard. “Hermione says you’re getting a bath and a shave and then going downstairs today, but she’s going to have to hover you down because I don’t think we can make it together, and I sure as hell can’t carry you down the stairs.  I think I might be sore from this later as it is.” Ron turned on the taps to fill the bath, and then went to work removing the bandages from Harry’s back and wrists. “Try and keep this arm out of the water, if you can,” he suggested, nodding to Harry’s left arm, where the most severe wounds were still trying to heal.  “The other one isn’t so bad, so use that to wash yourself.”

Rolling up the bandages, he tossed them in the trash.  Harry didn’t respond. He simply stared at his arms, then around the room, at the tub, and back to his arms again. Remembering, Ron thought. He was remembering what he’d done to himself the last time he’d walked into this room, viewing the evidence, reliving the memories.

“Come on. Let’s get you up and in the tub.”

He tested the temperature of the water, trying to keep Harry from dwelling on those memories.  Standing, he pulled Harry to his feet by the upper arms, as he had done yesterday morning when Dobby had scared him off the bed, then pulled him into his chest so that Harry’s chin rested on his shoulder and Ron’s arm was around his back. Harry was nearly lifeless in his embrace again; worn out from the trip or paralyzed by the memories of this room or both. Ron didn’t know, but he decided that a bath would do wonders for him. So without thinking or feeling weird about it, he slid his free hand into the waistband of Harry’s boxers and slid them down over his arse.

“NO!” Harry croaked, the terrified sound cracking and breaking over his damaged vocal chords.  Stiffening up at the intimate contact, he fought to get out of Ron’s grasp, trying to push him away. 

It took Ron totally by surprise, and then he could’ve kicked himself for being so stupid, for letting his guard down, for not thinking of how Harry would react after what had been done to him.

“I’m sorry, Harry… I’m sorry!” he yelled, still fighting to hold him, to hold them both upright in the small bathroom.  “It’s just me… It’s Ron.” But Harry was still struggling against him, fighting to get free, shaking all over in fear.

“Ron?” Hermione called from the bedroom. “Is everything all right?” she asked in concern.

“Yeah,” he called back, pushing Harry back down onto the toilet seat. “Don’t come in!” With one hand bracing Harry against the back of the toilet, he turned to face the door because he knew she was coming anyway. “Don’t come in, all right?” he warned, terrified himself now that this thing was about to escalate out of control again.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and she was much closer to the door, standing just outside it, he knew, probably with her wand drawn.

“Yeah… yeah,” he answered, panting. “I just did something stupid.” He turned back to Harry, who was gripping the arm Ron had pressed against his chest with both hands, that terrifying wildness back in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, mate,” he apologized soothingly.  “That was stupid.  I wasn’t thinking.  I’m sorry... I’m so sorry.”

They were frozen like that for a few moments, Ron afraid to move. He could feel Harry’s heartbeat thrumming wildly against the hand he had pressed to his chest. Then slowly, Harry’s grip on Ron’s arm relaxed, and his whole body sagged. Ron blew out a relieved breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding, and he sank to his knees in front of Harry.

Sitting like that for a long time, both of them tried to calm down while Hermione continued to stand outside the door. He’d put the crazy back in Harry’s eyes with his own stupidity, but luckily for him, Harry hadn’t decided to set him on fire for it, yet.  Still, it was a near miss, and Ron knew it.

“You okay, Harry?” he finally asked.

Harry blinked a few times, still drawing in deep calming breaths, and then nodded his head. 

“I’m really sorry,” Ron apologized again. “I’m a total idiot.  I promise it won’t happen again.”  Standing, Ron ran both hands through his hair, feeling weak now after the adrenaline rush, trying to shake the tingling out of his limbs.  He didn’t know if it was his imagination, or if it had come from Harry. “You think you’re ready to try again?” he asked after a few more minutes. “Before the bath water gets cold?” 

Harry glanced up at him and nodded, looking weary. Ron nodded back, feeling just a drained.  Grasping Harry’s upper arms again, Ron pulled him to his feet.  Then he turned him so he could step into the tub.  It took several tries for Harry to lift his leg over the side. The hardest part was trying to ease him down without dropping him or going in with him, but they finally managed. Harry actually sighed when he sank into the water, which was still steaming. Closing his eyes, he laid his head against the back of the tub and relaxed his bruised body.

“You know, Hermione and I have gotten so used to doing things for you. I guess we just keep forgetting to ask,” Ron told him after a few moments of staring at Harry. “You not being able to talk is getting bloody annoying, too.” He grabbed the soap and a fresh rag. “We’ll need to get you some parchment and a quill.” 

Harry nodded at him in agreement, his eyes still closed. 

Ron got on his knees beside the tub and lathered the rag up with soap then placed it in Harry’s good hand. “Here,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m not washing your junk for you.  You can do it yourself, or I’ll call Dobby if you want…”

Harry’s eyes flew open, looking alarmed for a moment. Scowling at Ron, he shook his head, and then tugged the rag out of his grip.

“Okay.” Ron smiled. “I’m going to leave you alone for a bit then, and then I’ll be back to wash your hair, okay?” 

Harry nodded again, then closed his eyes and sank back into the steaming water.  His color was returning already, Ron thought as he watched him a moment, then went to face a waiting Hermione.

“I’m sure you heard most of that,” Ron said quietly to Hermione when he stepped into the bedroom.

“I woke up when you both started yelling. What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied with a sigh. “I just screwed up again.” He pulled her into his arms.  She looked gorgeous, wearing his shirt from last night, her face still puffy from sleep. “Did you sleep okay?  I feel bad now for making you take the middle all this time.  It’s bloody awful.”

“I don’t mind, actually,” she admitted, going a bit pink. “I kind of like it.”

“Hmm.” Grinning, he bent down, pulling her earlobe between his teeth. “Should I be jealous?” he whispered into her ear. 

He felt her shiver, and his cock jerked, going hard again in an instant. She was wearing nothing much more than his shirt, and he was in his pajama bottoms, his chest bare. Pulling her into him, he ground himself against her, wishing they had more time. Wishing they could take the opportunity while Harry was in the bath to be alone together on the bed, or maybe to throw Harry out of the bath and climb in together instead, but she was already pushing him away from her.  Her small hands braced against his chest. He sighed again, placed a quick kiss on her lips and released her.

“Where’s your bag?” he asked. “I need to get Harry a change of clothes and his razor. If he’s going downstairs, he needs something more than just his boxers. Some pajama bottoms at least.”

She pointed to the side table. “Get his toothbrush, too. His mouth must be tasting awful by now,” she said. “I’ll take the downstairs bathroom today then, I guess.” She stared at him again, suddenly serious. “Are you sure he’s okay?”

“We’ll be fine,” he assured her. “We’re working it out.”

When he’d finally returned to the bath, Harry was wide awake again, looking more like himself than Ron had seen him. He knew the bath would help, knew the heat would feel good on his aching body. Harry was wiping the rag along the side of the fresh scar on his left arm, being careful not to touch the red puckered flesh.

“I reckon Hermione’s right about your hair,” he told him.  “It’s filthy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it lay that flat before, unless it was soaking wet.” Dropping the fresh towel and clean clothes onto the back of the toilet, he asked, “You ready to get it washed?”

Harry nodded his head lazily.

Ron lathered Harry’s hair up and rinsed it out twice because it was just so filthy and matted.  He could feel the dirt from Harry’s scalp gritty under his fingernails. He tried just using the pads of his fingers to work the soap in, but Harry seemed to like it better when Ron scratched at his head with his nails, and so he did. Harry had his eyes closed and was actually whimpering as goosebumps rose up his arms and chest. He hissed a bit when the soap hit the fresh cut on the back of his head, and Ron ran his fingers over the still sizeable knot gently. Madame Pomfrey was going to be pissed at that when she saw it today, but maybe they would get points for having Harry all cleaned up and downstairs. 

Perhaps, if Harry was lucky, she’d give the all-clear and let the poor bloke have a sandwich, or a dozen. He was desperately skinny. Ron could count every one of his ribs, and his shoulder blades jutted out from his back, looking painful. Harry wasn’t going to recover his strength on chicken broth alone, Ron thought. If Harry was awake when his mum stopped by, Madame Pomfrey’s wishes be damned!  She’d make sure Harry got something solid in his stomach if she had to chew it up herself first.

When he’d rinsed Harry’s hair for the second time, he was looking pleasantly drowsy again. He’d probably make it downstairs just in time to fall back asleep, Ron thought.  He’d been in the bath a long time, though.  The water was growing cold.

“You finished?”

Harry nodded, though he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave the tub. He’d probably fall asleep in it if Ron would just leave him the hell alone. Pulling the plug, Ron helped a reluctant Harry to his feet, then grabbed the towel and wrapped it around him before helping him back down onto the toilet seat. Using Harry’s enchanted razor, Ron spent quite a while then shaving off two solid weeks’ worth of beard from Harry’s battered face, which for Harry was quite thick and full. For him, it would still be embarrassingly sparse.

Finally, he helped Harry into a fresh pair of boxers and his pajama bottoms, having to pull the drawstrings tight to keep them on his hips, but still they hung dangerously low. When Hermione came back upstairs, Ron was contemplating putting a t-shirt on him as he watched Harry, a hand at his hip to steady him while he brushed his teeth at the sink. Not understanding why he suddenly felt Harry needed more clothing, Ron didn’t know why he seemed indecent in nothing but his pajama bottoms when he, himself was dressed exactly the same way. It was more clothing than Harry had worn in over a week.

“Good, I’m glad you’re back,” he said as Hermione poked her head around the bathroom door, her hair damp, smelling of shampoo and soap, her skin pink. “I’ll need your help getting him down the stairs.”

Seeing that everything was under control in the bathroom, and that Harry was dressed somewhat, anyway, she came in.

“Don’t you look handsome?” she told Harry, surveying his reflection in the mirror and stepping into the small room.

Harry turned slowly, his back against the sink, gripping it with both hands as she stepped closer to him.

“Been missing these, I bet.” Smiling, she held Harry’s glasses up.  But he leaned backwards when she went to slide them on his face, looking alarmed again, and they all froze.  Ron frowned as Hermione’s face fell, and her arms dropped back to her sides. 

“Give us a minute, Hermione,” he suggested quietly, tugging the glasses from her fingers.

She nodded. Her breath hitching, she turned on her heels and fled from the room. Ron squeezed his eyes shut and closed the bathroom door behind her. Then he turned back to Harry, who flinched when Ron reached for him, leaning further back against the sink in fear.

“Look, mate. I know you’re having a really hard time right now with what happened at the Malfoy’s,” he began, pulling Harry back down to sit on the toilet. “I know. But Hermione doesn’t blame you for what happened… she loves you.” Kneeling on the floor in front of Harry, Ron pulled Harry’s chin up to force him look at him because he was staring resolutely at the floor. “I don’t blame you either,” he told him, staring at the fear in Harry’s eyes.  “What happened in that damn place to you, and Hermione, and me wasn’t your fault. No more than it was mine or Hermione’s. But she’s trying to hold herself together right now, too, and I swear to you, I will kick your arse if you don’t get your shit together and stop hurting her. You understand?” 

Harry was shaking all over as they stared at each other, looking devastated and confused. Tears welled in his eyes. Then, after a long moment, he nodded. 

“Please don’t give up on me,” Harry finally whispered on trembling lips, looking utterly miserable as he continued to stare at Ron; Ron reading his lips as much as hearing the whispered words. 

Sighing heavily, Ron closed his eyes, then leaned into Harry and pressed his head into his shoulder. “Damn it, Harry,” he said in exasperation.  “We’re not leaving. Not now, not ever.  Okay?”

After a moment, Harry slid his hand to Ron’s neck, into his hair, holding Ron to him. They sat like that for a while, Ron on his knees in front of Harry, his hands resting on Harry’s waist with his head pressed against Harry’s shoulder while Harry stroked his neck.  Then Ron’s stomach growled loudly.

“Right then, let’s get some breakfast,” he said into Harry’s lap when Harry’s stomach responded with an even louder growl. “I’m starving.”

~ . ~


	14. Dreaming in the Drawing Room

Harry sat on the couch in the drawing room with a blanket draped over his shoulders, grasping a steaming mug of tea with both hands because he was still shaking, still trying to recover from the trauma of his bath this morning and from the more recent terror of the trip downstairs.  Being hovered down a flight of stairs was not something he planned to experience again if he could help it, not while conscious, anyway.  If he would have to endure that again tomorrow morning or tonight to get back up the stairs, he planned on just camping out here on the couch indefinitely. 

Ron had to hold him by the arm, trying to keep him steady, to stop him flailing around, as Hermione directed him down the stairs from behind them.  They’d opted out of the full body bind because the idea of being held under that curse again made him go pale and start to shake, just at the suggestion.  Still, he was surprised he’d actually made it out of the bathroom at all this morning.  What a fucking disaster he was making of everything.  He couldn’t seem to hold himself together for more than an hour at a time. 

He was good this morning when he woke up.  Well, he was sore as hell, and his head was pounding again, but he knew where he was at least.  He hadn’t awoken from a nightmare this time.  He was calm when he found Ron lying asleep next to him, bewildered but calm, as he’d lain there watching him, trying to decide what to do. 

He needed to go to the bathroom, but he didn’t think he could get there on his own.  Maybe if he crawled, but even then he didn’t know if he could make it.  And then what was he going to do?  How was he going to stand up in front of the toilet?  So he lay there trying to decide if he should wake Ron and ask for help.  Then he lay there trying to figure out how he was even going to ask for help if he did wake him.  He couldn’t speak, and it hurt to work his jaw.  Plus, he didn’t know how to pantomime that he needed the loo without looking like he was asking Ron for a wank or something. But then Ron stirred, his eyes blinking open, and it turned out to be easier than he’d imagined. 

Everything was cool, then when Ron helped him up, though he was hurting like hell by the time they’d made it into the bathroom. His bladder was so full, every step made him whimper in pain and grit his teeth at the urgency of his need. Then it all started to fall apart again when he looked at his arms after Ron had removed the bandages, and he saw again what he’d done to himself.  He remembered what it felt like to slide the cold blade of the knife over his own skin there in that same room, to feel the sting as the flesh parted beneath it, and the pain bloomed.  The sensation was so familiar to him, it was almost welcoming, like a friend. He remembered that sense of release as the blood flowed from him, taking the pain with is as it slid rapidly down his arms and over his hands. And he remembered that feeling of relief as the warmth drained from him, making him drowsy, light headed, blessedly numb. 

He knew it was wrong to want to feel that wonderful release again then, staring at his arms.  He knew it was totally fucked up, but he felt the pressure building in him again since he’d first woken up. The need for that same relief had paralyzed him as he sat there staring at the angry slashes. He’d wanted to slice open his skin again to let the poison run out of him because it was fucking with his senses, messing with his mind, and building in his veins. 

The skin around the raw wound felt numb and cold, alien, as if he were touching someone else’s flesh and not his own. The numbness felt like a portal, like a gateway to that feeling.  It felt like a promise. As if all he had to do was pull the puckered, swollen edges of his flesh apart again to let it out. And he wanted the numbness back, wanted it to swallow him again because his head ached with memories, and his heart bled with grief, pumping more poison into his veins.

Harry hadn’t even gotten control of himself to push those thoughts away before Ron was pulling him to his feet again, touching his bare skin, embracing him. Then he slid his hand down Harry’s back and into his boxers.  Ron had smelled of sex, of musk and dried sweat, distinctly and utterly male, and Harry just panicked.  He couldn’t help it.  Filled with an overwhelming dread, his body was telling him to fight, to flee, his mind not able to override the instinct. His reasoning was clouded with terror at what he thought Ron was going to do to him. 

Then everything was okay again. After he’d calmed down, things seemed back under control. But then after getting a bath, relaxing in the healing water and thinking he was pulling it together again, to have Hermione suddenly there and adding her scent to the mix? Fresh from a shower, damp haired, pink skinned and smelling of lavender, she’d flooded his senses as she crowded him in the small room where he’d tried to make it all go away once before. It was just mental and emotional overload.  He was lucky not to be comatose right now, he thought. 

He looked up when Dobby came into the room bearing a tray loaded down with breakfast items, and he could see it as well as smell it for the first time in a long time since his glasses were perched on his nose again.  Harry was so grateful to have them back, relieved to finally be able to see clearly again.  He’d felt like he’d been blind as well as mute.  Like all he’d needed was another silencing charm around him to be blind, deaf, and dumb. With his sight back, now he only lacked his voice.  But Ron had promised him some parchment and a quill, and his fingers itched to hold them in his hands.  Anxious to be able to write what he wanted to say (even though he didn’t know exactly what that might be), he was keen to be able to answer more than just “yes” or “no” questions with his head, eager to truly communicate.

They were eating in the drawing room because Harry couldn’t make it down another flight of stairs to the basement kitchen.  He felt bad at the trouble he was putting Dobby to as he set the large, heavy tray on the coffee table in front of him.  Ron and Hermione were in chairs opposite him, and they helped Dobby set out the stack of plates, silverware and napkins.  Harry looked at the bacon and eggs longingly. Even the toast made his mouth water. He was sure that he would be served broth again, but then Dobby uncovered a steaming bowl of porridge.

“Harry Potter’s Weezy told Dobby to make Harry Potter some porridge,” the tiny elf told Harry in his squeaky little voice, beaming at Harry when he sat up straighter and lowered his mug.  Porridge had never been his favorite, but right now it looked like the most wonderful thing in the world. Dobby smiled at the eagerness on Harry’s face, looking delighted to have pleased him. 

“I thought you might like something more filling than just broth this morning,” Ron explained with a shrug when Harry looked up at him. 

Nodding gratefully, Harry shook with anticipation as Dobby set a tray on his lap. 

 _Oh, God!_   It was so wonderful, creamy and warm, laced with cinnamon and brown sugar.  Harry fed himself, and much more successfully than he had last night with the broth because the porridge clung to the spoon and didn’t fall off too much when his hand shook.  It felt so good sliding down his raw throat, into his empty stomach that had been waiting for weeks, and which had been complaining so loudly all morning.  He thought it may have been the best thing he’d ever eaten in his whole life, and he devoured almost the entire bowl. Then, feeling unfamiliarly content with a belly swollen with porridge and warm tea, fresh from a bath, clean shaven and comfortable, with his stomach working happily to digest his first proper meal in ages, Harry promptly fell asleep.

He woke to find Madame Pomfrey sitting on the coffee table in front of him, Ron and Hermione still stationed across from him. It couldn’t have been very long since he’d fallen asleep.  He still felt incredibly full. Someone had pulled his glasses off and tucked the blanket around him, though. 

“You look much better this morning, Mr. Potter,” she told him.  “I’m glad to see you’re up and about.”

Rubbing his eyes, Harry tried to stifle a yawn, but couldn’t.  His jaw popped painfully when it stretched open, ending on a moan as he tried to sit up, searching for his glasses. He found them sitting on a small leather-bound book on the end table beside him.  It was a journal, a quill and ink bottle sitting beside it.  Hermione, he thought, and he glanced over at her to confirm it.  Sliding his glasses on, he pulled the book into his lap, running his hand over the soft worn leather of the cover before flipping it open.  The first few pages had been torn out, her private thoughts maybe, the journal given over for his use.  He stroked the first blank page with his fingertips. Running his finger along the edge where the other pages had been roughly removed, he acquainted himself with the texture, introducing himself to his new means of communication.

They’d left the bandages off him after the bath, knowing that Madame Pomfrey would just have to remove them again when she came, which he was thankful for because the skin itched wherever it was healing. It felt good to have the wool blanket rub against him when she slid it over his bare shoulders and down his back to examine him.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, peering into his eyes. 

Harry pointed to his head for a moment. Then remembering, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink well and began to write, slowly, clumsily at first.

“He hit his head yesterday after you left,” Hermione confessed hurriedly after Harry had gestured to his head, and before he’d finished writing.

Madame Pomfrey immediately ran her hands over his head, tilting it down for her examination as Hermione had done before her.

 _My head aches, and I’m dizzy a lot_ , he wrote while she gently rubbed her fingers in circles over the tender and still sizable knot on the back of his head.

“Hmm,” she said when she’d released him. Reading his words, her lips pressed together in a thin line, and Harry saw Ron shift uncomfortably behind her. 

“Were you experiencing the headaches before you hit your head?” she asked.

Harry thought a moment before nodding. 

“You need to get plenty of fluids,” she instructed, nodding to herself in confirmation.  “The headaches and dizziness are signs of dehydration, though I’m sure that crack to your head isn’t helping matters.  I want a glass of something beside you at all times, doesn’t matter what it is, water, pumpkin juice, tea, whatever.  I want you sipping on it while you’re awake, even if you’re not thirsty.  Understand?” she asked.

He nodded his head again.

“How about your ribs?” she asked then.  “I can tell your jaw is still painful.”

 _Yes,_ he wrote, _but not that bad._

What he’d written wasn’t really true, however. His jaw was still hurting quite a lot, but he hoped to convince her to remove the restriction on his diet because he was eager to return to solid food as quickly as possible even though he knew it would hurt like hell to chew.

_My ribs when I cough mostly.  Then they hurt pretty bad._

“Mmmm hmmm, and how about that cough?” she asked when she read what he’d written.  “I’d like to listen to your lungs, if I may?”

She worked on him for a long time.  It was slow going, with her asking questions and waiting to read his responses.  Still, it was the most normal conversation he’d had in weeks, though his hand was cramping and his fingers were stained with ink.  Thank God, he hadn’t been able to damage this arm as badly as the other or he wouldn’t be able to hold the quill at all!  Finally, she pulled out a small rubber ball about the size of a snitch from her bag while he flexed the fingers on his left hand for her the best he could, and she tested his grip.

“Here,” she said, dropping it into his open palm.  “I want you to use this to strengthen this hand.  You’ll lose the use of it if you don’t work with it.  And it’s going to be mighty hard for you to catch any more snitches if you can’t grasp the broom with your other hand.”  Closing his fingers around it, she continued.  “Keep it in your hand.  Squeeze it as often as you can.  Work to build up the muscles or they’ll atrophy.  All right?”

Harry nodded, feeling alarmed again at how much damage he’d done to himself as Madame Pomfrey rewrapped his left arm, leaving off all the other bandages.  It was a relief not to have to look at the scar anymore.

“Now, your lungs are clearing, but your fever seems to be returning,” she told him after she’d finished.

Harry saw Hermione scoot to the edge of her chair, leaning in closer at the pronouncement. 

“Just a low grade fever,” she added in an appeasing manner when Harry raised his eyebrows at this news. “A few degrees above normal, but I want these two to keep an eye on it for me.”  She pointed over her shoulder at Ron and Hermione. “Mr. Weasley tells me you’re refusing the pain potions,” she said then as both a question and a statement.

Harry glanced up at Ron for a moment, and then to Hermione, who went pink and stared at the floor, before he nodded and dipped the tip of the quill back in the inkwell.

 _I can manage my own pain,_ he wrote.  _I don’t want it. It knocks me out._

“I know you can, Harry,” she said truthfully, looking at him sadly. “Most people would still be flat on their backs right now if they were in the same condition as we found you. That’s if they were alive at all, mind.  But it may explain why your temperature’s elevated.  The strain it’s putting on your body to fight the pain may be causing it.  I can give you something else, something that won’t cause drowsiness,” she offered, but Harry shook his head firmly.

He’d lived with pain a great deal of his life. It was a feeling he was intimately familiar with.  He knew how to handle it, how to mitigate it, how to work through it.  He’d even welcomed it on occasion.  It could help to clear his head sometimes, help him to hold his focus, and right now, it kept him grounded in reality.  The potion took that away and brought on the numbness. Harry needed the pain to fight against his desire for it because the potion anesthetized his flesh and his thoughts, and he didn’t want to fall back into that place. He was afraid that if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to crawl back out again. 

In the end, she finally gave up and let him have his way. Harry knew he could be really stubborn sometimes, but they didn’t understand, none of them. They couldn’t understand his need to be in control of this one thing when everything else was chaos, when his future was determined by Dumbledore and Voldemort and the damn prophecy, when his feet were set on a path he couldn’t step off of, and his here-and-now was controlled by Madame Pomfrey and Hermione and Ron. 

Being utterly dependent on them for everything right now — when he could get up, when he could go to the bathroom, when he could eat — wasn’t a position he fancied, though he was immensely grateful to all of them for everything they were doing for him. He was willing to submit to almost any demand they made of him. He just had to have this one thing, something that shouldn’t even seem all that important to them, petty and childish in their eyes, perhaps, because they couldn’t understand the peril of giving in.

She shook her head, probably lamenting what a difficult patient he was being, he thought, and got to her feet.  “Continue to get up and around,” she instructed.  “But do try to be careful not to crack your skull again.  For once, I’d like to find you injury-free,” she sighed.  “Maybe just come over to have a cup of tea sometime instead of mopping you up, all right?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

He nodded, feeling like a child being criticized for being clumsy. Turning to Hermione then, she pulled a potion bottle and a small jar from her bag and handed them to her. 

“The exercise after so long being dormant is likely to cause muscle cramps, which can be extremely painful. Use the cream to rub into his muscles to relieve some of the soreness since he won’t take a potion, then, if you would for me, dear.  Like I showed you,” she told her, and Hermione nodded.

 _THANK YOU!,_ he wrote in large letters, turning the journal towards the healer and getting her attention by slapping his hand on the pages as she’d started to leave.  She stared at it a moment, and then her eyes welled suddenly with tears.

“Of course, Harry,” she whispered, walking back to him.  Then she ran her hands over his head, smoothing his hair and kissed his forehead, her hands cupping his face.  It took him totally by surprise, alarming him slightly. 

“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she called brokenly over her shoulder as she turned and hurried out, leaving him quite stunned and bewildered in her wake, staring after her with his mouth open.

Ron sniggered at the look on Harry’s face, and Hermione kicked at him with a huff of exasperation. Harry stared at her then, hoping for an explanation, but found there were tears in her eyes, too. He had no idea what the hell just happened, but he knew he was missing something. Harry could be thick sometimes, he knew, but he didn’t understand what any of that meant.  Why had she reacted like that?  He’d just tried to thank her for everything she’d done for him, and he’d made her cry. Harry sat like that for a while, trying to puzzle it out, while Hermione sniffled and wiped at her eyes, and Ron tried to keep from looking at either of them, biting down on his lips to keep from laughing and earning himself another kick from Hermione. 

In the end, Harry gave up thinking on it and set the quill back on the table, leaving the journal in his lap. Picking up the ball, he rolled it in his good hand, squeezing it, testing its resistance, and running his fingers over its smooth surface. Then he dropped it back into his left hand and wrapped his fingers around it, working them open and closed for a few minutes while Ron and Hermione watched silently. Then Hermione left her chair and returned a few minutes later with a glass of pumpkin juice, setting it wordlessly on the table beside him.

It was another hour at least before he felt drowsy again. He and Ron had made another trip to the bathroom together, and he was steadier on his feet this time.  Still, he was exhausted by the time they’d returned to the couch, eager to relax back onto it. He curled onto his side, his head inclined against the armrest, trying to get comfortable when Hermione sat down on the coffee table in front of him like Madame Pomfrey had done before, facing him. Harry looked up at her.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

He nodded his head.  She nodded back and, moving slowly, cautiously, she reached up for his glasses. Harry saw Ron’s wand slide into his hand behind her in the chair. He saw him gripping it firmly, bracing himself for Harry’s reaction, but he was okay. He wasn’t panicked this time. 

As both of them stared at each other, Harry let her slip them off his face, fold them and set them on the side table. Then she conjured a pillow and helped him slide it under his head while he stretched out along the couch.  He still clutched the ball in his left hand, and the journal was still held to his chest with his right, and he resisted her attempts to remove it when she’d pulled the blanket back over him, though he didn’t know why.  She didn’t fight him, however, letting him cling it to like a talisman, stroking its soft cover with his thumb. 

“Goodnight,” she whispered, laying her hand on his cheek, running her thumb along the side of his nose where his glasses had left indentions in the still swollen and bruised skin, then under his eye and along his cheekbone.  He closed his eyes at her touch, sighed deeply, and fell asleep.

He had strange dreams, though.  He dreamt that he and Ron were sitting across from each other back in the tent, tossing a quaffle back and forth between them, while Hermione read, _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ for the hundredth time, throwing irritated looks at the pair of them.

“We still have two more Horcruxes to find,” she finally barked angrily. “And you two aren’t doing anything to help.” Slapping her book closed, she glared at them. 

Harry opened his mouth to apologize, to tell her that he didn’t have any idea where to look for the other Horcruxes, but no words came out. Then he remembered that his voice was in his journal so he looked around for it, but she’d already stormed out of the tent by the time he’d found it.  Ron got up and went after her, leaving Harry alone in the tent and feeling guilty for wanting a break from the Horcrux hunt for a bit. 

Then the tent flaps parted, and he looked up, ready to apologize to her properly. Having finally found his voice, he held it clutched it in his fist.  But it was Macnair who stepped inside, not Ron or Hermione. Moving in slow motion, he straightened up, carrying a bucket full of potion and a ladle, bluish smoke billowing over the top as he moved forward. Harry froze in horror at the sight of him.  His journal slipped from his slack grip and fell to the floor, taking his voice with it so he couldn’t scream for help.  He scrambled backwards, away from his torturer, but it felt like he was moving through quicksand.  

Harry was shaking all over as Macnair grinned at him with his yellowed teeth, coming closer, spooning up the potion and letting it splash back into the bucket as he came.  Then Harry hit the tent pole in the middle of the room, and his arms were suddenly behind his back, tied to the pole.  He was nude again and terrified as Macnair ran a hand down his chest and grasped his limp cock, using it to pull himself against Harry, breathing in his ear.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” he said, pulling on Harry painfully again, squeezing.  “Greyback and I thought we’d pay you another visit,” he breathed into Harry’s ear.

Harry could see the tent flaps part again as someone else entered.  He knew who it was before he ever saw him. The dread filling him made him whimper in panic as he tugged frantically to try and free his arms.

“NO!”  He was screaming without sound when Macnair leaned into him again, releasing his cock to grind against him. 

“You were such a good whore, Potter,” he growled, his voice heavy with desire.  He licked Harry along the neck, biting his ear as Harry turned his head away from him and squeezed his eyes closed. “Rudolphus told me this potion would make you beg for it.  Said a little of this, and you’d get on your knees for me, open your mouth for me, and spread your legs for me.” 

Macnair was punctuating every thought with a thrust of his hips, reaching behind Harry to stroke his arse, running his finger between his clenched cheeks while Harry, blind with terror, fought to free himself, to scream for help.

Harry jerked awake with a start, his heart trying to beat right out of his chest as he stared wildly around the drawing room, searching for Macnair and Greyback. Then a blurry someone was rushing towards him, having leapt up from the chair Hermione had been occupying. Overcome with fear, Harry opened his mouth in a silent scream, peddling backwards on the couch as they came.

“No… Mum!” Ron yelled from the other end of the couch, pulling his wand and jumping up, sounding as terrified as Harry was. “ _PROTEGO_!” he bellowed, and a shield erupted between Harry and Mrs. Weasley. 

She ran headlong into the invisible barrier and bounced backwards as it expanded between them; she and her husband on one side, and Ron and Harry on the other. Mr. Weasley caught his wife before she hit the ground, but Ron took no notice. He had one hand held out towards Harry, palm up, his fingers splayed, and his hand shaking.  His other hand was gripping his wand, pointing it at his own mother, holding her off with a shield, but his eyes were on Harry and full of fear.  Harry was crouched against the other end of the couch, still wild eyed in panic. Trembling violently and chest heaving as he hyperventilated with fear, he was ready to spring off the couch and run for the door if anyone moved.

No one spoke. They were all frozen in place, looking stunned, looking like bizarre participants in a game of musical statues when Hermione hurried around the corner at the commotion with her wand drawn. Dobby was at her heels, carrying a loaded tea tray.

Harry swallowed several huge gulps of air.  After a few moments, his skin still crawling with revulsion from the dream, he slowly raised both hands to Ron in a gesture of surrender; trying to tell him he was okay, that he was harmless. He held Ron’s eyes as he slid his back down the couch so his knees were pulled up against his chest.  Only then did Ron drop the shield. 

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Harry laid his head on top of them, still shuddering violently, tucked up into a ball on the corner of the couch. Still, no one spoke, everyone still in shock as Ron dropped heavily onto the other end of the couch. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley returned slowly to their seats, while Hermione stepped cautiously into the room.

“That’s it!” Ron finally said angrily after another moment, getting to his feet again, still shaking. Harry jerked his head back off his knees in frightened surprise, staring at him. “No one is allowed to come near Harry while he’s asleep from now on,” he told Hermione as she approached him, as if it had been she who had suggested it.  Then he turned to his mother. “You can’t just run at him like that,” he said incredulously, gesturing wildly.  “Not when he’s had a nightmare that bad. It’s scared the shit out of him. You don’t try to wake him up, and you let him come back to himself on his own!”

“Ron,” Hermione said quietly, laying a hand on his arm.

“No! I’ve had enough,” he replied, pulling out of her grasp. “You don’t understand,” he said pleadingly, turning back to his parents, whose mouths hung open at his tirade.  “It’s not safe.  You don’t know what’s happened. What it’s like. The hell he’s been through. That we’ve all been through.”

“Ron, that’s enough,” Hermione said more firmly.

He stared at her a moment, looking shocked at his own words, deflating under her stare. His sudden anger was bleeding out of him. Then he clamped his lips together, dropped his arms and sank back onto the couch looking miserable. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized then to his parents after another minute.  “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Harry and Hermione.

Hermione gestured for Dobby to come into the room then when everything had gone quiet, and he did, staring around at all of them with his huge eyes while Harry reached for his glasses and slid them on with trembling hands. Mrs. Weasley was sniffling when Harry grabbed his glass of pumpkin juice and took several long swallows while Dobby set out the tea service. 

He looked around for his journal, which had fallen off the couch in all the chaos, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu from the lingering nightmare. Finally locating it, he tried to bend down to retrieve it, but Dobby beat him to it, picking it off the floor and returning it to him.

“Thank you,” he mouthed, and Dobby went red, still looking nervous after what happened.  Harry felt a bit red himself, embarrassed at the scene he’d created in front of Ron’s parents. He’d caused Ron to yell at them, to protect Harry from them, two of the people he was most fond of in the world, whom he hadn’t seen in almost a year. Wanting desperately to bring the focus off himself, Harry needed to dial down the stress on everyone in the room. He had to stop fucking everything up again and pull his shit together.  He’d been thinking everything was going pretty well after the disastrous start to the morning, until that awful dream.  But it was just a nightmare. He knew it wasn’t real this time, and he really didn’t want Ron to have to drag him into the bathroom and beat the hell out of him for making his mother cry.  So he took another couple of breaths, flipped the journal open, and put quill to parchment.

 _You finished doing your nut?_ he wrote and turned it to Ron, who stared at the page a moment, his eyebrows disappearing in his hair in surprised disbelief. Then Harry saw his lips quirk at the unexpected words.

“Yeah,” he replied finally, somewhat stoically. “I guess I am…You?” he asked. 

Harry nodded his head. Hermione just stared incredulously at the pair of them like they really had gone mental, still standing near enough to them to witness the exchange.  Maybe they had gone mad, maybe they all had. 

Sliding the journal back into his lap then, Harry looked nervously up at Mrs. Weasley.  Still hoping to avoid that beating, he lifted his hand to her in invitation. Immediately, she left her chair and came to him, her eyes still red, looking in danger of bursting into tears as she sat down on the couch next to him. Ron scooted over, appearing even more surprised that Harry allowed her to pull him to her. She gathered him into her arms, laying his head on her generous bosom and began stroking his hair. Harry let her, allowing her to mother him, giving himself over to it, giving his permission. 

He had no memory of ever being comforted from a bad dream before, and he wondered if his mother had ever done this for him as a baby. Then he wondered if babies even had bad dreams as Mrs. Weasley continued to stroke him soothingly while he relaxed against her. 

Hermione took the chair Mrs. Weasley had vacated when it appeared that she had no intention of returning to it while Harry was allowing her to coddle him, something she’d clearly been desperate to do since the moment she’d met him that first time on the train platform.

Dobby served them all tea and biscuits, and even Harry was allowed to have some, though he soaked it in his tea first before biting off small pieces. He sucked on it until it had gone completely soft in his mouth before swallowing it. He must have slept through lunch, he decided, because his stomach was empty again. They all chatted around him while they sipped their tea, going over things they’d obviously discussed before for Harry’s benefit. Harry occasionally wrote a question or a thought in his journal while everyone paused to learn what he’d written; and they spent several pleasant hours together after the horrible beginning.

He learned about their move to Muriel’s, and how everyone was doing all crowded there together.  Harry remembered Muriel from the wedding as a fairly unpleasant woman. She’d said Hermione had skinny ankles, he remembered for some reason, and he recalled, too, all the things she’d said about Dumbledore.  But however abrasive she was, she obviously cared for her family to allow them all to come and live with her.  He remembered what she’d said about Ginny’s dress that day, also. She’d complained that it showed too much cleavage. The image of Ginny came into focus in his mind then, the memory of how beautiful she’d looked that day. That was the last time he’d seen her.

He blinked it away, the image of Ginny and Muriel at the wedding, and the memories of the day they truly began their long difficult journey. Hurriedly writing again, he asked about Fred and George.  He learned that they were driving Muriel completely mad. They’d closed down their shop in Diagon Alley and were back doing a mail-order-only business, busy inventing new products again.

“Arthur’s left the Ministry until this all blows over,” Mrs. Weasley was saying. “And we’ve pulled Ginny out of Hogwarts, of course. It’s just not safe anymore. Now, don’t you go worrying about us, Harry,” she warned sternly at the look on his face.  “None of this is your fault. We’re all safe,” she assured him, patting his hand. 

But she was wrong. Snape had been right. All of this was his fault, all of it. He’d brought this on all of them. Everyone he was close to was suffering because of him. So many of the people he loved had been murdered, maimed, tortured, forced into hiding all over the country, or imprisoned, living in fear for their lives, or of having their children taken away, all for supporting him.

She kept trying to reassure him, but he couldn’t hear her anymore as he sat stiffly on the couch, his mind playing images in his head.  Things remembered and things imagined:  the Dark Mark hovering in the skies over each of them, looking over their shoulders for a glimpse of those red eyes and the bolt of green light while he sat here in Grimmauld Place barely able to feed himself or get himself to the bathroom without assistance. The images left him feeling paralyzed again, feeling like he’d turned to stone.  He could feel the poison building up in his veins again, overwhelmed suddenly at how long the path in front of him still was, the path that ultimately ended with Voldemort.

Hermione eventually hurried the Weasley's on their way, making excuses for him.  She said that he needed to sleep, that he was worn out and was still recovering, that he needed his potions.  Mrs. Weasley kissed his head, stroking his hair like Madame Pomfrey had done, promising to return the next day while Harry stared glassy-eyed around at them all. Feeling the numbness spreading over him, Harry watched them make their goodbyes to Ron and Hermione, kissing them on the cheeks, grasping their hands, hugging each other while he sat silently on the couch.

Ron and Hermione let him be when they were alone again, engaging in small talk and busying themselves around him. Letting him brood, they let him work his way back to them on his own, and he was grateful. He’d let Mrs. Weasley coddle him, comfort him, but it was as much for her as it was for him. He needed to work this out on his own.

It took him awhile. He’d found the small rubber ball tucked down between the couch cushions, and he squeezed it compulsively in his left hand while he wrote the same words over and over in his journal, the miniscule writing filling the page:

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

Apologizing to every single person who’d been harmed by him, Harry checked their names off a list in his mind, until the poison had finally drained out of him, and the numbness in his brain subsided. Until he felt like he could put down the quill and not take up the knife.

They had dinner in the drawing room, as they had all their meals that day, and it was back to soup for Harry, but it was a heartier potato soup, not the thin broth as before. Then they made their way back upstairs for the evening, stopping at the bathroom one last time before continuing up the stairs on foot, no one even suggesting using a hover charm. It took a very long time. Harry’s legs hurt, the muscles in his thighs and calves burning, and he had a stitch in his side like he’d run a marathon by the time they finally arrived in Sirius’ room. He was completely exhausted, his whole body aching again by the time he was laid out on the bed.  It had been a very long day for all of them. 

Hermione set a fresh glass of water on the table beside him, but he was asleep a moment later.     

~ . ~


	15. Remus’ Revenge

Harry woke up the following morning all alone on the bed. Squinting around a moment, he searched the room for a sign of either Ron or Hermione, but they weren’t anywhere.  He was completely alone.  It was the first time since he’d initially woken up here in Grimmauld Place that no one was nearby.  It bothered him, made him feel antsy and abandoned, which was stupid. He wasn’t a child.  But he’d grown so accustomed to their presence, either in the bed with him or near him at all times, that he just felt lost now to find himself alone.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he found his glasses on the side table, his journal and his water from last night beside them. Picking up his glasses, he slid them on, looking around the room again. He remembered coming upstairs after dinner last night and falling asleep almost immediately after hitting the mattress. There was evidence they’d been here, though. The other side of the bed was messed up, the pillows and blankets in disarray, but no Ron and Hermione. 

As he continued to look around the room, he noticed that the bathroom door was shut as was the door to the bedroom. He felt more relaxed then. One of them was just in the bathroom, the other downstairs already, he decided.  Judging from the light in the room, it was already well into the morning hours. He’d slept a long time. The events of the day before had clearly worn him out. Maybe they were both downstairs having breakfast without him, he thought, feeling suddenly worried again and a bit annoyed because he was hungry, too, and his bladder was full again. He needed the loo, and there was no one to help him this morning.

After a few more minutes on the bed, a few more minutes of waiting for a sign of either of them, Harry pulled the blanket off his legs and worked his way up into a sitting position. Turning onto his side and facing the outside of the bed, he slowly walked himself up with his hands. He was pleased to find that he wasn’t as dizzy as he’d been the day before, though his head still ached. Taking a drink of the water, he then sat there flexing and pointing his toes. His legs and calves were stiff from the day before. He was trying to decide if he thought he could stand on his own when the bathroom door opened, and Ron stepped into the bedroom, followed closely by Hermione.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Ron greeted cheerfully when he’d caught sight of Harry. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Harry just stared at the two of them in surprise and some confusion at their entrance together from the bathroom, of all places. What were they doing in there together?  Then after a moment, he raised his arm and pointed at the bathroom door behind them. 

“Not by yourself, you aren’t,” Ron told him then, coming over to stand next to Harry. “If you end up flat on your face, Madame Pomfrey might kill us all for her trouble.”

Harry was annoyed again. What choice had they given him, really? But Ron was already helping him to his feet. Shifting Harry’s weight to himself, they started the awkward trek to the bathroom looking like contestants in a three-legged race. 

Damn! His calves and thighs were stiff and incredibly sore from last night’s trip up the stairs. It took even longer to get to the bathroom today than yesterday because he was hobbling so much on wooden legs. They protested at every step, seemingly unwilling to bend.

He felt better after his bath, which was a lot less traumatic than the previous one had been. His mood improved once he’d soaked for a while in the warm water, relaxing his strained muscles. When he was dry and dressed, they began the arduous trip downstairs. Everything was fine at first, until they hit the stairs. His muscles were more limber after the bath as they crossed the bedroom floor, but he was already winded by the time they arrived at the landing. He’d insisted on managing the stairs without the hover charm, but once they started the journey down, he began to second guess that short-sighted decision because every step was agony. He’d only managed about four steps before his thighs were burning again, vibrating badly on every step so that he clutched tightly to the banister and to Ron for fear of falling and tumbling the rest of the way down. 

On the sixth step, he finally halted. His legs were trembling violently, trying to give out with fatigue, and his side was searing with pain. When Ron took the next step down and tried to bring Harry with him, Harry resisted. Holding onto the railing, he shook his head, his teeth gritted in pain. He needed to sit down. His legs and lungs were on fire. He wanted to go back because he still had twice as many steps to go before he was down.  He pointed back up the stairs, breathing hard.

“You don’t wanna go downstairs?” Ron asked him, bewildered at his sudden change of heart.

Harry shook his head. He did, but he couldn’t get there today. It was too hard, too painful. He needed to get horizontal again, right now! Feeling miserable, he wanted to curl up on the bed and spend the rest of the day feeling sorry for himself. 

In the end, he was hovered down the remainder of the stairs against his frightened and furious, albeit mostly silent protests, when Hermione intervened and insisted. 

His mood was black by the time he was dropped on the couch in the drawing room. He spent an hour or so in high dudgeon, ignoring them both. Scribbling in his journal, he wrote hated names on a list and doodled sullenly on the pages while breakfast was being prepared.  Writing feverishly and squeezing the tiny rubber ball in his fist, both actions were quickly becoming an obsession, a compulsion for him to work out his frustrations. 

In deference to his mood, Ron and Hermione tiptoed around him, which only served to annoy him even further. He felt surly, felt like he had seemingly the whole of his fifth year, or like he felt when it had been his turn to wear Slytherin’s locket when that piece of Voldemort’s soul was still inside it. Brooding, feeling irate and then melancholy, tired of living in this reality, he was irritated into anger by his convalescence and driven to depression by his utter dependence on them.

They took breakfast in the drawing room again, and Harry had porridge again, but his mood finally improved once Madame Pomfrey arrived. His fever still persisted, but she’d given the okay to start him back on solid foods, which he was relieved to hear. But what changed his mood the most was that she hadn’t arrived alone.  Lupin was with her.

He looked a real mess. There were severe scratches on his face and neck, and he was limping slightly as he followed her into the room. Harry was so stunned to see him that he just sat on the couch, a spoonful of porridge still halfway to his lips, left forgotten at seeing his father’s old friend for the first time in ages. They just stared at each other for what seemed a very long time while everyone else in the room waited, watching Harry’s reaction to his new and unexpected visitor.

“Harry,” Lupin finally greeted him on a sigh of relief, and that seemed to be all he was able to get out before he sank down on the other end of the couch from Harry, still staring at him as if he were just as surprised to see Harry as Harry was to see him.

He’d been very rude to Lupin on their last meeting, Harry remembered in some shame. He’d goaded Lupin into hexing him by calling him a coward, and he was immediately reminded of another of his father’s classmates, another whom he’d called a coward. That person had cursed him for it, too, right after he’d killed Dumbledore. Snape could have killed Harry if he’d wanted while out on the Hogwarts grounds, when Harry had caught up to him, but he didn’t.  Instead, he’d actually stopped one of the Death Eaters from casting another Cruciatus on Harry.  Then he’d simply fled, leaving Harry alive and relatively unharmed on the ground beside Hagrid’s burning hut. 

The next time he’d called Snape a coward was when they’d met in the torture room of Malfoy Manor. The memories of what happened there suddenly washed over him. So much had happened so quickly after Snape had forced him to his knees. After he’d humiliated him in front of Lucius and Avery and made Harry take him into his mouth, Snape had tried to save him again.

Harry probed the memories of that meeting, however painful and humiliating as they were because there were things that had happened then that he didn’t understand, things that were hard to remember after the long night before with Bellatrix. His body had been at the height of pain. He’d been delirious with fatigue and fever, making it difficult for him to form reason. Everything had seemed a mass of confusion to his aching brain, yet some things had been clear, and were brought back to the surface again at the site of Lupin.

There were things he needed to tell Ron and Hermione now that he had the ability to communicate with them, now that the memory had been stirred again. There were things he needed to ask Lupin, too, things about his mother, about Snape. Remus was the only person left to Harry who might have the answers.

Letting the spoon drop back into his half-finished bowl of porridge, Harry slowly set it back on the coffee table and reached for his journal. His eyes were still on Lupin, who in turn, seemed unable to move or speak. He simply stared wide-eyed back at Harry as if he believed Harry was the ghost of his father, James, afraid to blink for fear that the apparition of his childhood friend might disappear.

_I’m sorry for what I said to you before._ Harry wrote quickly in the journal. Then he turned it so that Lupin could read the written apology. 

Remus stared at the words a long time until Harry worried he might not respond at all.  Afraid that perhaps he was still angry with Harry, or angry again with him now at the reminder of their last meeting, Harry nervously gripped his quill and waited.

“I’m sorry that what you said was true, Harry,” Lupin finally responded in a hoarse voice.

He looked utterly miserable then, tired and worn, so much older than his years suddenly. Harry continued to stare at him in concern before Madame Pomfrey took her spot on the coffee table and began examining Harry without a word. 

“You’re unable to speak?” Lupin asked.

Harry pressed his lips together in an apologetic frown and shook his head.

“His voice will return in due course,” Madame Pomfrey declared in a businesslike tone. 

He wasn’t able to converse with Lupin while the healer examined him because she commanded all his attention. And when she’d finally finished with him, she started on Lupin.  It was clear that he’d been injured recently, and Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t allow him to brush her off. 

It was kind of amusing for Harry to see her boss someone else around for a change, to have her poke and prod at a new patient for a while, and drag gasps and moans of pain out of another besides himself. Honestly, he was beginning to think her a sadist and was considering adding her name to his list of people he’d written down earlier that he owed retribution, close to the spot Lucius held.

Lupin did his best to politely avoid her prodding wand, her roaming hands and probing questions, but in the end, gave up and left her to it. In Harry’s experience, sometimes it was better to simply get something unpleasant over with, especially if the unpleasantness was as persistent as this particular healer. Remus seemed to have had enough experience with her to have learned that lesson himself.

“This is another of those patients I have trouble with,” Madame Pomfrey told Hermione once she was given free reign, glancing over her shoulder as she healed the scratches on Lupin’s neck.  “Like I told you I have with that one.” She nodded at Harry, and he saw Hermione’s lips pull into a smile from her chair. 

Harry had no idea what that meant, but it was clear that she and Madame Pomfrey had developed a relationship. They appeared to have grown close during the last few days while Harry had been recovering.

“He’s another who carried a large burden at such a young age,” she went on, while Harry and Lupin continued to stare at each other, both slightly bewildered. “Another whom I spent a great deal of time with during his years at Hogwarts and subsequently developed a fondness for.”

Harry frowned. It was kind of annoying being talked about like you weren’t even in the room, and slightly irritating to be listening to a conversation that felt like it had continued from before you arrived with the speakers not having the courtesy to catch you up. But he wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand. Ron and Lupin looked confused, too, which made Harry feel a bit better.

“How’s Tonks?” Ron asked Lupin cheerfully then.

“About to pop,” Lupin responded with a grin, stretching his arm out away from his body to indicate how large her belly had grown before it turned to a grimace when Madame Pomfrey moved her attention to the leg he’d been favoring on his way in. “Ouch!” He yelped when she’d evidently hit a tender spot. “Poppy, please.” He tried to tug down his trouser leg and brush her off him. “I’ll be just fine. Dora has already treated the leg. And I’ve already endured the lecture from her and her mother about my injuries,” he added quickly when she opened her mouth to argue. 

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips disapprovingly, but stopped her examination.

“Injuries are an occupational hazard of being a werewolf, you know,” he informed her.  “The ability to heal quickly is its one advantage, however. I will be fine. I do not wish you to waste your time on me,” he said kindly, though she still looked distressed. Clearly it went against her nature to see someone injured and not help them.

Harry took up the quill in an attempt to rescue him. _Maybe just some tea?_ he wrote, and turned the journal to her. She stared at it a moment, and then smiled. 

“You are a cheeky one,” she huffed in exasperation.  “But I would be delighted.”

Hermione took out her wand and drew up another chair, and Madame Pomfrey joined them around the coffee table for a bit before finally collecting her bag.

“You’re coming along quite well now, Harry,” she told him. “I don’t think you’ll be requiring my services much longer.” And with that, she made to leave. “I’ll call again in a few days’ time to check your progress, but don’t hesitate to contact me if you need me. All right?”

He nodded, Hermione and Ron promising as well.  Hermione stood up and hugged her, thanked her, and then walked her out.

“You look so much better than when we first found you,” Lupin said quietly when they’d left the room, staring at Harry again. “I was afraid that you…” But he broke off, unable to say, apparently, what he was afraid of. 

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise at the news that Lupin had been present when they found him and glanced at Ron for clarification. 

“When you dumped us in my room and then took off, Harry, we all went looking for you.  In every place we could think of,” Ron explained. “Remus happened to be at the Burrow, and we split up into groups. It was him, Hermione, and me together when we finally found you.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He finally nodded, and then stared into his own lap, feeling ashamed again at the revelation of what Remus had borne witness to: both the physical evidence of the Death Eater’s brutality on Harry’s body, and the trauma Harry had inflicted on himself. Harry felt the heat of embarrassment creeping into his face at those imagined images. How weak must his mentor think him after finding Harry on the bathroom floor bleeding out into the tub, he thought in disgrace.

“Harry?” Remus said, and then paused, waiting for Harry to look at him. 

Slowly raising his head, he reluctantly met Lupin’s eyes. 

“Harry…” he began again. “Fenrir Greyback is… dead,” he blurted.  “I… I killed him.”

“WHAT?” Ron yelled in stunned disbelief.

Totally caught off guard, Harry sat perfectly still, his mouth falling open in shock, feeling winded at the news, like someone had punched him in the gut unexpectedly. He couldn’t breathe then for a moment. Spots were appearing in his vision and a roaring filled his ears as he tried to absorb what Lupin had said.

Scooting closer to Harry on the couch, Remus leaned toward him. “I know what he did to you, Harry,” he confessed then more quietly, looking desperately sad.

Harry reeled backwards as if he’d been struck, shaking his head in denial of the truth.  Then he jerked his head up to stare at Ron, feeling betrayed that he would share what had happened to him with anyone, even Lupin.

“No!” Ron denied indignantly, immediately reading Harry’s face. “Hermione and I would never tell anyone anything about what happened in that dungeon, Harry! Not to any of us.” He held his hands up to Harry in the same gesture of surrender that Harry had used the day before. “Never. I swear it!”

“Poppy had tended to your wounds, and she was giving instructions on how to care for your injuries,” Remus explained hurriedly.  “She mentioned the bite marks… on your back.” 

Harry went pale then at the memory of receiving those bites, feeling light headed.  Panicked, his eyes flitted around the room, searching for an escape. Hermione was standing in the doorway. Harry hadn’t noticed her return. He wanted to flee back upstairs, to hide in Sirius’ room, but she was blocking the exit, wand in her hand while he stared wildly around, looking for another way out. Lupin touched his hand and Harry jerked away from him with a whimper of fear. 

“Calm down, Harry,” Ron warned.

Harry’s eyes flicked back to him in desperation, staring at Ron pleadingly for his salvation.

“Harry, please let me explain,” Remus said, pulling his hand back slowly, careful not to touch him again while Harry’s heart pounded in his chest and head.

Ron’s eyes held him in check as he tried to swallow the panic. When Harry didn’t move, Remus continued. 

“Greyback was the werewolf that bit me as a child. I believe you already know this.”

Harry nodded slowly. 

“He was a very aggressive male, a very dominant male,” he went on.  “He was the alpha male. I don’t know if you know what that term means.” 

“In a wolf pack, the alpha male is the leader. It means that all other wolves in the pack are submissive to him,” Hermione answered automatically, walking slowly back to her chair and sitting down when it appeared that Harry had abandoned his planned attempt to flee.

“Yes,” Lupin agreed with a small snort. “What that means is that every other wolf in the pack must submit to his demands, whatever they may be, or risk being attacked and killed.”  He was staring into Harry’s eyes now.  “And Greyback can be… very demanding,” he finished quietly. 

Harry and Hermione both shuddered at their own memories of the vicious werewolf.

“It’s one of the reasons I have always stayed away from my kind, because Greyback is the leader of my pack, and it’s the largest pack in England by far. But when Dumbledore asked me to return to them, to live among them, to try to carry his message to them, well, my status within the pack then was very low, my credibility weakened by my previous refusal to join them, to choose to live among wizards instead. There is a hierarchy among the pack, you see, and I was reluctant, as you can imagine, to put myself in that position, at the bottom of that list,” he confided, and his eyes clouded. “Greyback wanted to punish me, to make an example of me. I’m lucky, actually, that he did not kill me.  But I was forced to submit to him many times,” he explained quietly. “Mostly in wolf form, but not always.”  He stared at Harry again, trying to see if Harry understood his words, his meaning. “I have lived through the same attack from Greyback as you,” he stated plainly, finally, almost on a whisper.  Then he went quiet for a moment, the room totally silent. 

Hermione had gone pale, and her wand shook in her hands. Ron reached over and grabbed it, squeezing her fingers while Harry stared blankly at them. Trying to understand how Remus could ever have voluntarily walked into that, how Dumbledore could have asked it of him. How he could sit here now and talk about it, reveal something so personal, so degrading in front of them?

“I knew immediately what the marks on you meant. What must have happened to you.  No one had to tell me. I have felt his teeth on me as well, felt him mark me as his property, lay claim to me. The mark is a warning to the other wolves, you see, a sign to them of my status in the pack. And it’s a reminder to me of his dominance over me,” he said, and his voice was full of disgust. 

Harry was shaking all over with the memory now, shuddering with revulsion. Remembering the feel of Greyback’s teeth on his back, on his shoulder as he came, Harry relived the moments of having him deep inside his abused body. Throbbing his release, he’d stretched Harry past endurance while he licked the wounds closed, and sealed them with his saliva.

“I was enraged,” Remus continued after a moment, his voice strong again. “A member of my pack had been attacked. My true pack, the pack I considered my family: James and Sirius, Peter before he betrayed us, Lily when she married James, and you, James’ son. I had to defend, to retaliate, to seek revenge. It was instinct. I waited for the full moon, which was quickly approaching, found him and killed him, though he was already wounded, not fully healed from a vicious attack, his body badly burned, severely weakened, from He Who Must Not Be Named, maybe, angry, perhaps, at your escape.” 

Harry glanced again to Ron. 

“If he hadn’t been, he would have killed me. He nearly did anyway.  He is the cause of my injuries,” he said with a gesture to his face.

“Does that make you the new Gurg?” Ron interjected suddenly, unable to help himself, apparently.

“Excuse me?” Lupin asked.

“The new Gurg. You know, the new leader, the alpha male or whatever?” Ron asked. “Hagrid told us that’s what the giants call their leader.”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” Remus agreed. “Though I will be constantly challenged for that title now because of my previous rank in the pack. Every male who was above me will be after the spot, after my blood. None will be afraid to challenge me for it if they find me.”

They all sat in silence then, absorbing the news. Harry was unsure what to say. Thank you? He felt some relief, yes, that Greyback was dead, but also some disappointment that he hadn’t been the one to do it himself. His name was high on the list that Harry had worked on in anger this morning. A list of people he wanted revenge against.  Lucius’ name was also on that list, and Voldemort had already beaten Harry to him. Now Greyback was gone as well. 

Harry knew that Rudolphus was also dead and two others, though he did not remember who they were. Those three belonged to him, but he’d failed to kill Bellatrix or Avery. He was pretty sure that blond, Rowle, he thought, was still alive, too. He didn’t remember seeing him again before their escape. There were others, as well.  The list was long, but Harry’s bloodlust was reserved for a select few. Only a few besides Voldemort himself that Harry wanted to personally destroy.

“I need to apologize to you, Harry,” Remus said then, pulling Harry back out of his dark thoughts.  “I was unable to speak with you before the full moon, to discuss with you the effects of being bitten.” He paused, waiting for Harry to look at him again before continuing. “Of course, you know you are not a true werewolf, but I have spent a lot of time with Bill since he was attacked, and he has more symptoms than simply liking his steak on the rare side. I could not warn you of those effects, however, because you were still unconscious. I’m sorry for that, for leaving you unprepared.”

Harry stared at him in growing alarm. _What now? What the fuck else?_ he thought furiously.

“It’s not that bad,” Lupin said then, reading Harry’s face. “Near the full moon, Bill experiences a heightening of his senses, his sense of smell, for example. His instincts tend to become more basic, he tells me, his reasoning dulled, his sexual desires increased. He feels more aggressive. That’s all, really. He doesn’t sprout hair and start howling at the moon, or anything. But still, if you aren’t expecting it, you might be a bit alarmed,” he finished. 

Harry understood then why he’d reacted so strongly to Hermione at first. Why his nose was so sensitive to her scent. Why being near her made him want her so badly. Why it seemed so much better lately, now that the moon had waned. The knowledge made his shoulders sag with relief.

_Thank you for telling me,_ he wrote finally. _About Greyback and about Bill. It explains a lot._

“Of course, Harry,” he said. “I would not have left you at all until I knew you were all right if the moon was not so near its apex.”

Harry nodded. _Can I ask you some questions?_ he wrote then after a few minutes.

“Certainly,” Lupin responded after reading what Harry had written.

Harry hesitated, trying to decide how to ask, or how much to tell. _How well did Snape know my mum?_

Lupin looked taken aback by the unexpected words. “Uh…” he said. “Well, we were all in the same year, of course. Lily was friendly with him, but she was friendly to everyone. She sort of stuck up for the underdogs, as you will remember from the memory you witnessed.”

Harry nodded, but that wasn’t what he needed to know. Ron and Hermione had scooted to the end of their chairs, leaning over the coffee table now to follow the conversation. _They weren’t close, then?_ he asked.

“Why do you ask, out of curiosity?” Lupin asked.

Harry thought a minute, and then wrote: _Snape paid me a visit at Malfoy Manor. I saw some things, images and stuff._

“Snape paid you a visit?” he asked dangerously. “What kind of a visit?”

Harry shook his head. That name was on his list, too, but he had a lot of questions to get answers to before he finished with Snape. It was personal with him, it always had been, and Harry would finish it himself, not leave it to someone else to tidy up for him.

_It doesn’t matter. Was she an animagus like my dad and Sirius?_

Lupin read his words and looked bewildered.  Harry’s knew his questions about his mum must seem to be coming out of nowhere.

“I don’t believe so, no. Not to my knowledge. Why?”

_What about her patronus? What was it?_

“Harry, what’s this about? What did Snape say to you?” 

Harry shook his head again and pointed to his last written words. 

Lupin sighed. “It was a doe, Harry. A doe to your father’s stag.”

“A doe?” Ron asked in surprise. 

For Harry it was a mystery solved, but for Ron it must have been an even stranger one because he’d seen the doe in the forest, too, and knew Harry’s mother couldn’t have cast it.  Harry nodded his head. That’s what he thought, what he’d suspected. He spent several minutes writing then, answering Lupin’s questions.

_Snape found me in the torture room. We fought. There was some unpleasantness, but he tried to rescue me. Tried to get me to portkey out. Said it would take me to Hogwarts. To the infirmary. I didn’t believe him. I told him I wouldn’t leave without Ron and Hermione. He said they were already dead, but I still wouldn’t go without them. We got ambushed by a whole bunch of Death Eaters trying to reach them. I used the portkey on him when he got stunned. Stayed behind._

All of their mouths hung open when they’d read his words, tears threatening to fall from Hermione’s eyes as she looked back at him.         

_He lied about Ron and Hermione. I needed to know what else was a lie._

He finished and put down his quill. Not wishing to explain what any of it had to do with his mother, nor to share with Ron and Hermione Snape’s patronus’ form in front of Lupin.

“Thank you,” he whispered then to Remus, who understood the subject to be closed.

 

* * *

 

Lupin visited for a few more hours, agreeing to stay for lunch before returning home, which for Harry meant his first solid meal, and he was more than ready for it after his interrupted breakfast. Lupin grasped Harry’s hand and patted his shoulder before taking his leave, promising to carry their well wishes to Tonks and to visit again soon.

Harry watched Hermione help Dobby gather up the lunch dishes after Lupin had left, watched as she brushed past Ron, watched Ron’s eyes on her, too, as she moved around the room. They seemed more at ease with each other than Harry could ever remember seeing them before.  In all the years he’d known them, there was always tension around them. Even when they were all living together in the tent, they were hyper-aware of each other, awkward in their dealings, but they weren’t anymore. Their time in the dungeons had changed them, had changed all of them, he thought, as he watched her walk out of the room.

Stroking the journal which was back in his lap, his constant companion now, he thought over Lupin’s news, about Greyback, about Snape, trying to decide how he felt about it all, what he intended to do about Snape if they met again. He flipped the journal open, slid his fingers over the rough edges of the first few torn out pages again, stroking it absentmindedly.  Then he turned to the back, to the very last page, where he’d hidden his list, staring at the names he’d written. Picking up the quill, Harry dipped it in the ink and drew a line through Greyback’s name, adding the letters RL beside it, while Ron got up and came around to the couch, sitting down next to Harry. 

Harry made to close the journal, but Ron held out his hand for it. And when Harry didn’t turn it over, he reached over and tugged it out of his grip. Frowning at Harry, Ron opened it to the last page. On one side were Harry’s drawing of the deathly hallows symbol and his list of those three objects beneath it. Then there was the list of the Horcruxes and his doodles of the snake and the cup. He’d written questions marks for the unknown Horcrux next to his doodle of the raven. On the other side of the page was the list of names he’d compiled in his anger. These last two pages in his journal he’d devoted to the things he still needed to accomplish before he was finally done. 

Ron ran his finger over the symbols and then read the list of names Harry had written:

_Voldemort, Tom Riddle_

_\------------------------------------_

_Bellatrix Lestrange_

_~~Rudolphus Lestrange~~ _ _HP_

_~~Fenrir Greyback~~ _ _RL_

_Walden Macnair_

_Big Blonde - Rowle??_

_\------------------------------------_

_~~Lucius Malfoy~~ _ _V_

_Antonin Dolohov_

_?? Avery_

_Rabastan Lestrange_

_?? Selwyn_

_Severus Snape *_

Ron’s face went pale as he stared at the list. Then, after a long moment, he held out his hand for the quill. Harry dipped it in the inkwell and handed it to Ron, curious at what he’d write, or if he intended to scribble it all out. Instead, he slowly drew a line through Macnair’s and Dolohov’s names, and marked them each with HP. Then, returning the quill and journal to Harry, he wiped his eyes.

“You can’t draw for shit,” he announced suddenly to Harry, retaking to his chair when Hermione had returned.

“Nice,” Harry mouthed back at him.

~ . ~


	16. Painful Apologies

Hermione pulled her knees up in the chair as she sat down and wrapped her arms around them. She wanted to talk to Harry, now that she could. Now that they were alone again and he was able, before he fell asleep again, before he shut them out.

“Harry?” she began, and he looked at her, but she wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Was it Snape that cast the doe patronus?” she finally asked him tentatively. “In the woods? Did he lead you to the sword?” 

Harry stared at her intensely a minute. “Yes,” he croaked out, nodding. His voice had actually broken through, but it sounded so unlike his own, hoarse and gravelly. It sounded as if his vocal chords were in shreds.

“Why the hell would he do that?” Ron asked then, hunching over and resting his forearms on his thighs, gesturing his confusion with his hands. “What happened with him at the Malfoy’s, Harry?”

Hermione watched as Harry’s eyes grew dark, and his face went hard. She’d been horrified by what she’d read earlier. By what he had and hadn’t written, and from what she remembered of Bellatrix’s words that horrible day. They’d speculated about Snape after their escape. Bellatrix had said he’d betrayed them. They knew that he might have played some part, but she didn’t know what happened between them, not the reasons why Snape tried to save Harry, not the reasons why Harry ultimately saved Snape. She couldn’t believe that he’d stayed behind, after all they’d done to him, especially if he thought they were already dead, her and Ron.

“I need the bathroom first,” he said after a long silence, his voice failing him again half way through so the last words were said on a whisper. Still, she was glad he hadn’t given up trying to use it. She was even gladder that he seemed willing to discuss any of this with them at all. She knew from experience that he could close up like a steel trap, but he needed to talk about the things that happened there. They all did.

Ron got up to help Harry stand, but he’d already managed on his own. Holding onto the arm of the couch to steady himself as Ron reached for him, his face grimaced in pain, a slight tremor visible in his thighs. 

She needed to rub the salve on them tonight before bed to try and ease his discomfort.  She had meant to after his bath this morning, but they’d had such a late start to the day that they were all eager to get downstairs for something to eat. Plus he had seemed a lot better after the bath. Then his mood had turned so sour when they got downstairs that she didn’t dare try to touch him after she’d made him come down, afraid of his anger. 

Harry had been so touchy with her since he regained consciousness. He’d been so all over the place emotionally, that she didn’t know how to react to him anymore. It made her feel like she was doing things all wrong, which with Ron would’ve been completely normal before, but she and Harry had always been so comfortable with each other. It came totally naturally with him, but it was different now. He was different. The relationship between them had changed. It was like Harry and Ron had switched places, and now the tension was between Harry and her.  She wanted the old Harry back. She wanted her best friend back, but she didn’t know how to get there. Or if they even could. 

Hermione had been completely naïve when Harry finally woke up. She’d told him everything was going to be all right, and she’d felt hopeful for the first time in so very long. She had thought they could pull themselves back together, but he was just so broken, and not just his body. His whole mental state had been damaged. He needed help. Help that she and Ron didn’t know how to give him, help that she feared he would never ask for or accept anyway. Madame Pomfrey could heal his body, perhaps, but not his mind. She couldn’t erase the terrible things they’d done to him without obliviating him entirely. 

Still, Hermione had thought things would get better, but yesterday when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were visiting, Harry had gone practically comatose. The terror after his dreams, she expected. Actually, he’d recovered from that pretty well, but then later, his eyes just went dead. It was the same empty stare she’d seen in the dungeons, and it had scared her to death. 

She’d hurried Ron’s parents out, and then they had watched him. She watched him like she had done during their time in Malfoy Manor, watched him take up his quill and write, his eyes glassy, far away, lifeless. It was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen. And then finally, the darkness drained away. He was left so exhausted afterwards, like he’d been struggling, fighting to stay with them, to hold onto his sanity. It broke her heart. 

It felt like watching him drown, not knowing how to swim, not able to help. Like standing at the water’s edge unable to save him, screaming for help with no one around, watching as his arms flail and his head dips under. Watching as the water ripples out away from his thrashing body in waves of concentric rings, listening to his gurgling cries for help when his mouth fills with water. Watching as he disappears under the glassy surface. Watching the water go calm and still again once he’d given in, once it had swallowed him whole, once it had silenced him.

She ached to reach out to him, but he wouldn’t let her get too near him lately, so she was reduced to merely watching him again. Feeling chained against the wall again, feeling as if the silencing charms were back around her. Watching him tear himself apart now, she watched him continue what the Death Eaters had started, and felt so helpless again to stop it, standing here at the water’s edge.

Harry was suicidal. She knew that.  He’d made a damn fine attempt to carry it out when they’d escaped, but it was clear from what he told Lupin that he’d been suicidal then, too. He’d stayed behind, even when he thought they were already dead. Harry had fought those bastards so hard. She knew he had. He’d been so strong for them. She’d watched it happening. But when they brought him back in that day, believing they were dead, he’d finally been defeated. His whole being had told the truth of it. Slumped on Avery’s shoulder, and having to be dragged in, he was already gone. 

His body had been totally compliant in Avery’s arms, completely incapable of independent movement, his head resting on the Death Eater's shoulder while he held Harry up.  He was conscious, but his eyes were dull, his face pale and waxy. Not really seeing or comprehending, he was utterly oblivious to his surroundings, or no longer capable of caring.  The hair rose up on Hermione’s arms at the memory, at the emptiness she had seen in those beautiful eyes then. It was the same look she saw in them yesterday.

He took up the quill again today, working in the journal for a long time, but this time it was different. This time his eyes flashed with anger, which, frankly, she felt better about. He should damn well be angry, and he needed to express that, even if he was angry at her. Harry needed to direct that anger outward, to lash out at someone else instead of himself. It was a hell of a lot healthier. It meant he was fighting back again instead of lying down. It meant that he hadn’t stopped struggling against the water. That he was still trying to hold his head above its black surface. 

The journal she’d given him appeared to have become his outlet. She’d never known him to carry a journal before, but he almost wouldn’t be separated from it now. He stroked it constantly, like a lover, clutching it to his chest protectively. But if he could pour out his feelings into that book, if he couldn’t confide in her or Ron, then she was glad he had it. He had to let his anger and grief out somewhere or he would drown in it.

Maybe it wasn’t that he couldn’t confide in them, though. Maybe it was that he couldn’t confide in her, she thought, as she watched them shuffle slowly out of the room, reminding her irresistibly of how he’d looked on Avery’s shoulder as he leaned heavily on Ron. It was just her he was turning away. Ron was replacing her as his confidant, as his protector, it seemed. They were growing closer while Harry shunned her recently. The estrangement stung more than she wanted to admit. 

She felt jealous, which was ridiculous. She was jealous of Ron, jealous of Mrs. Weasley, too, yesterday when Harry let her hold him, let her comfort him. It was irrational. Hermione knew she was being petty, but she was feeling usurped, nudged aside, shut out from the closeness they’d always shared, and she didn’t like it one bit. The initial feelings of wanting to protect him after their escape, to protect all of them from the outside world, had only intensified since Harry had awoken. She was still trying to keep everyone out, to hold both Ron and Harry to her chest protectively, possessively, selfishly, like Harry seemed to with his journal, and she didn’t know how to relax her grip on them.

Her feelings about Harry were so confused, different than they were before everything that had happened to them, more complex and mixed up after their forced intimacy. She was in love with Ron, she didn’t doubt it, but the three of them were so intertwined. Their relationships with each other was so bound together that some of those feelings were tied to Harry, too. Ron had said it himself. He wouldn’t leave them, either of them again, no matter what. The three of them couldn’t be separated. Now that she and Ron had finally come together, and their relationship had blossomed and turned sexual, their closeness to Harry had gotten even more complicated. 

Neither of them had turned away from him, nor put up any barriers between them.  Maybe because of what happened to all of them in the dungeons. So much had been stripped away from them there, their innocence, their dignity, their humanity. Maybe because it developed around him, the intimacy she’d found with Ron. It had happened with Harry there beside them, though admittedly he wasn’t aware, conscious even, but it seemed to her to have developed with him too, because of him, even. He was the reason they were together. It didn’t really exist without him. 

Hermione didn’t know what she wanted from Harry. She couldn’t decide if she really wanted to explore those feelings, but she knew she didn’t want to let it go either. Unable to relax her grip, right now the confusion of emotions only made her want to cling tighter.

Harry shuffled back in, moving mostly on his own now. Ron’s arm was around Harry’s back with a hand on his hip to steady him while Harry’s arm was thrown around Ron’s neck. His fingers were digging in Ron’s shoulder for support. His face was still a mask of pain, and a bead of sweat was sliding down the side of his face from the effort the trip was costing him. She felt bad for having neglected him this morning, but the ointment wasn’t going to relieve that much pain, she thought. He needed a potion, but he was just so damn stubborn!

Harry was still in nothing but his pajama bottoms, looking desperately skinny. His skin was flushed with the persistent fever, but the bruising was fading away finally. The color had changed from brilliant blacks and purples to muted yellows and greens. All the bandages had been removed now, and only the cut on his left arm still looked gruesomely fresh and raw, still vibrantly red against his pale skin.

Ron helped settle him on the couch before taking the other end for himself. Then she and Ron both sat and patiently waited for Harry. They waited for him to decide when he was ready to talk. After a moment, he sighed deeply and took up the quill.

 _I was with her that whole night I didn’t come back to your cell. She left me sometime in the morning. I don’t know how long I was alone. Then Snape was there with Lucius and Avery.  We fought, as I said, and he tried to get into my mind, to get information about what Dumbledore and I were doing. Trying to find out what the three of us have been up to. He didn’t learn anything, though. I fought back, and it turned ugly._ He wrote and then he paused a few minutes, chewing on his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth before dipping the quill once more and continuing.

_He sent Lucius and Avery out of the room, and then he tried to get me to go with him. To take the portkey, but I wouldn’t. I thought it was a trick. He cast the patronus then. To get me to trust him, I guess. And when I still wouldn’t leave without you, he told me you were already dead.  I didn’t believe him at first, but I didn’t know for sure. I hadn’t seen either of you since the morning before. I started to think it was true, that maybe that’s why they weren’t taking me back there anymore. When I still wouldn’t go with him, he disillusioned me, and we went to get you.  She came down the stairs then with a bunch of other Death Eaters, and she knew something was wrong. Then she and Snape started to duel, and the others joined in. He yelled at me to take the portkey and he got stunned. So I used the portkey on him, like I told Lupin._

Finished writing, he set down the quill before flexing his fingers and popping the knuckles to give her and Ron time to read over what he’d written. Hermione read it through twice before speaking.

“Ron and I heard the fight in the corridor before they brought you back in,” she began after a few minutes silence. “We thought it was the Order finally, but then it was only you they brought in. I thought there were Order members that must have been killed or something when they came in with just you, that the rescue must have failed,” she explained, her voice wavering.  Stopping, she drew in a deep breath to calm the shaking of her hands at the remembered fear she’d felt then, at the relief and then hopelessness when she had seen Harry that day. “When you didn’t return the night before… when they didn’t bring you back,” she started again, but broke off, breathing deeply to calm herself. 

“Why would Snape give us the sword?” Ron asked. “How did he know where you and Hermione were camping? Why did he try to save you at the Malfoy’s, Harry?” he asked in frustration. 

Harry just shook his head.“I don’t know,” he whispered. _I have a lot of questions for him when I find him,_ he wrote, giving up on his voice again. 

There was more to it than that, she suspected. There was more he wasn’t saying about what happened between them in the dungeon, about his mother’s involvement, but he clearly didn’t want to tell them. Hermione thought she knew some of it, though. She’d worked out some of it on her own with the questions he’d asked Lupin, and what Bellatrix had said, too. 

 _I don’t want to talk about it anymore,_ he wrote then.  _I’m tired, and my insides feel like someone took them all out, stomped on them a bit, and shoved them back in again none too gently._

She winced in sympathy at his words. He needed a pain potion, she thought. The stubborn git! She was surprised, however, that he’d even admit to them the pain he was in. His anger at her from earlier seemed to have dissipated somewhat. She didn’t want a resurgence of that anger, so she wasn’t fool enough to pressure him to take one. She’d learned her lesson about trying that.

“Harry?” she asked then, wanting to probe deeper into their time in the dungeons, to understand more of what happened there. “Bellatrix said that—”

Harry’s face went white, so full of hatred at the sound of her name that Hermione’s sentence died on her lips.

“NO!” he growled. The sound was so raw and terrifying that goose bumps rose up on her arms and tears sprang into her eyes. Then he seemed to realize himself, and the sudden anger left his face. He shook his head and unclenched his fists. 

“I just can’t right now,” he whispered, looking weary. “I’m sorry.”

Nodding her head at him in understanding, she tried to blink back the tears that threatened. She’d pushed too hard. Hermione knew she had a tendency to do that, and she should have known better.  He’d refused to even write her name down, simply referring to Bellatrix as _she_ or _her_. Hermione should have realized that he wasn’t ready to talk about her at all. Now she’d pushed him even farther away.

She glanced at Ron, who was watching her in concern, his mouth a thin line, conflicted between her and Harry, maybe, or angry at both of them. She didn’t know, but she was feeling miserable again, and so she got up to go to the loo herself, to try and pull herself together. 

When she’d washed her face with cold water in the sink and came back out, Ron was outside the door, leaning against the wall like he had been that first morning after they arrived in Grimmauld Place. She felt like crying now at finding him waiting for her like that again. God, she loved him.

“All right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she sighed miserably. “I’m just doing everything wrong, Ron.”

“We all are,” he replied sympathetically. Pushing himself off the wall then, he wrapped his arms around her. “I nearly blew it with him yesterday morning, remember?” he asked into her hair. “But we’re working it out, like I said. All of us are working it out together.” He was nuzzling her neck now, pressing her against the wall, his hands sliding down her back and over her bum. “He’s loads better, I think,” he consoled her between nips on her neck. “He got control of himself this morning on his own after Lupin told him about Greyback. Just give him some time, ‘Mione. He’ll come ‘round,” he breathed against her throat.

Ron was completely incorrigible, she thought in dismay. He was ready at the drop of a hat to shag her wherever they happened to be at that particular moment, turning every occasion into an opportunity to have sex. They’d stopped sleeping together in the bed with Harry. Now that he was no longer unconscious or sedated, they were afraid they’d wake him and cause him to panic. So now it seemed like Ron was working his way through the rest of the house, as if he were checking destinations off a list. Though he never attempted anything where Dobby or someone else, like Ron’s mother, might walk in on them. They were always behind locked doors, not like they were now. Pressed together here in the hallway with Harry in the next room, and Dobby who-knew-where in the house, they were in full view of anyone who might decide to pop in on them.

They had spent a long time together this morning in the bathroom. He’d talked her into showering with him when Harry didn’t seem ready to wake up. It was wonderful to be with him, exploring each other, both of them growing bolder, more confident. Ron was ridiculously talented with his mouth, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her with the way he’d always eaten with such indecent enthusiasm. She was convinced that ninety percent of his sensory receptors were tied to his taste buds anyway. He was like a child in that way, learning about his world by putting everything into his mouth. 

The memory of Ron tasting every inch of her flesh this morning made her suddenly flush. It made her ache and go damp with desire. Shivering, she remembered the feel of his tongue on her as it chased the rivulets of water that ran down her neck, between her breasts, over her arse, and down her thighs. His mouth had been on her, everywhere. Water ran off her into his waiting mouth as he lapped at her with his tongue, slurping errant droplets off her nipples and stomach and the underside of her breasts. Their slick bodies slid together, and then he turned her around, her back to him under the spray, and took her like that. With her hands braced against the wall and her back arched to give him better access, the water had pounded on her lower back and ran down her legs where they were joined together. The sound, amplified by the small space and their wet bodies, sounded so terribly erotic to her ears as he gripped her hips and pulled himself into her. Burying himself inside her, he slapped their bodies together over and over again until they were both moaning wantonly while her legs shook.

She was shaking now at the memory, trying to hold back the echoing sounds that wanted to escape her lips. Inadvertently she was encouraging him further, though she meant to stop him. She needed to put an end to this and return to the drawing room before they both abandoned Harry for the afternoon and got lost in each other again. But her back was against the wall with her arms thrown around his neck as he rubbed his erection against her while still cupping her bum and sucking her neck. 

Then he slid his hand down her leg, behind her knee, pulling it up to rest on his hip while he pressed himself against her. She went stiff all over in an instant. Feeling suddenly panicked, her desire turned like a switch to fear, and Ron froze, too. 

She was making terrified whimpering noises now in her throat, and she couldn’t stop it.  Even though she knew it was Ron, even though she knew they weren’t in the dungeons anymore, so powerful were the images that came over her that she couldn’t pull away from them. She was shaking all over with fear and shame.

“Oh, God, ‘Mione, no… I’m so sorry,” he cried, dropping her leg and backing away from her while her eyes filled with tears. 

She threw her hands up to cover her face, trying to stifle the sob that wanted to burst out of her, attempting to get herself back under control.

“I’m so sorry,” Ron apologized, sounding devastated himself.

Hermione wanted to comfort him, to pull herself together for him because it wasn’t his fault. It just came out of nowhere, catching her totally off guard, blindsiding her. Crouching against the wall, she pressed her hands to her face, breathing hard. Her body curled in on itself while she trembled all over in a cold sweat, waiting for the adrenaline and the fear to drain out of her. Then after a few moments, she reached out and grabbed Ron’s hand.  Squeezing it, she wiped the wetness from her eyes and sniffed.

“Ooohhhh,” she moaned, letting out a long shaking breath, sliding the rest of the way down the wall so that her lower back was pressed against it and her knees were drawn up into her chest. Still holding Ron’s hand, she dragged him down with her. “That just came out of nowhere,” she whispered.  “I’m so sorry, Ron.”

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have… I won’t do it again,” he stuttered desperately.

“No,” she argued. “No, Ron, it wasn’t you. It must have just been fresh on my mind, with Lupin talking about Greyback and all, and us talking about Snape. I was just remembering too much about what happened then,” she explained. “I think it just threw me back there all of a sudden, and I lost it.”

Hermione sat there, still reeling from her reaction, realizing suddenly why Harry was reacting so violently to her sometimes. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before. He hadn’t had nearly the amount of time to come to terms with what happened to him as she had. It must be a terrible shock to him sometimes when she’s so near to him after what they’d made him do to her. God, she was an idiot! 

Puffing up her cheeks with air, she quickly blew it out, and then rubbed her hands on her thighs. Not wanting to dwell on it anymore, she was resolved suddenly to repairing the rift between them now that she thought she knew the cause. 

“We should go back in.  Harry’s probably getting worried,” she told him, getting unsteadily to her feet while Ron continued kneeling on the floor in front of her.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, looking up at her with his face still full of concern. 

Nodding, she reached down for him, helping to pull him to his feet. “Yeah,” she assured him. “Yeah, I’m fine now, Ron, really. Let’s go back.” Sniffling again, she headed for the drawing room, pulling a bewildered Ron behind her.

Harry did look worried when they stepped back into the room. He had turned sideways on the couch, watching anxiously for their return. They walked back in with Hermione still holding Ron’s hand, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by Harry’s studious gaze. They darted quickly to their joined hands and then back to her face. Harry inspected her with those green eyes that still sat too prominently on his thin face, scanning hers, taking in her blotchy complexion. Drawing his own conclusions, she thought, as she took the couch this time, sitting down with one leg tucked under her, while Ron took her normal chair. 

They all sat in awkward silence for a minute, and she could feel both of their eyes on her. Poor Harry had no idea what in the world had happened, fearing he was the cause and blaming himself, no doubt, if she knew him at all. And poor Ron was watching her to make sure she really was all right, still blaming himself, too, Hermione knew.  But it was she who was to blame, the cause of distress for both of them.

Harry stretched out his leg then, and nudged her thigh with his foot, his big toe revealing itself as it slid out from under the blanket draped around his legs. Hermione stared at it in surprise a moment. Surprised that he’d initiated a touch with her at all, even if it was with his foot, she looked up at him. She saw fear and confusion and something else she couldn’t name in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her when he had her attention. The corners of his mouth turned down while he squeezed that ball nervously in his left hand. 

Hermione stared at him a moment, then gave him just a hint of a smile. Pulling on the toe digging into her thigh then, she dragged his foot into her lap, watching as his eyes went wide in surprise. When he went to pull it away, she held it firmly.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” she told him sternly, but looked away from him as she ran her thumb up the middle of his captive foot. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just feeling a bit emotional today after Remus’ visit,” she explained as she continued to stroke his foot. 

It was mean, she supposed. She’d learned from watching Madame Pomfrey that his feet were extremely sensitive, and she was deliberately trying to get a reaction from him, but it had the desired effect. His mouth opened in surprise, and then in pleasure, as she continued to massage his foot. 

His face went slightly red at the noise that came out of his mouth when she pressed firmly into his arch and then up into the ball of his foot, causing his toes to spread wide.  Hermione watched in satisfaction when he relaxed onto the couch finally and stopped trying to pull away from her, letting his eyes fall closed at her ministrations. She glanced at Ron then, who had his eyebrows raised, half surprised, half amused, looking like he’d been clubbed over the head by a troll. She smirked at him, still feeling all over the place emotionally today, but not much caring right now. Harry wasn’t pulling away from her, and she was going to make the most of it. Using the opportunity, she hoped to try and gain back some of what they’d lost with each other.

“I think I’ve found your weakness, Harry,” she said quietly, after he sighed in deep contentment. 

Peeling open one eye, he looked at her quizzically. 

“Your secret? Your Achilles heel? Or is this just the only spot on your whole body that isn’t sore?” she asked in amusement.

He scowled at her, and then quickly stuck his tongue out.

“Does Ginny know about this?” Ron asked suddenly sitting on the edge of his chair.

Harry’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe like Hermione’s had at his playful gesture a moment before. Turning slowly to Ron, Harry stared at him in disbelief.

“Only, the look on your face right now, if she knew. I mean, I reckon she could get you to do just about anything she wanted,” he said in all seriousness. “Better not let her find out,” he cautioned.

Hermione and Harry were both too stunned to respond.

They whiled away the rest of the afternoon, chatting about nonsense things, all of them having had their fill of heavy conversations today, letting the news Lupin brought and the discussion on Snape settle. Harry napped a short while on the couch before dinner, and then spent the rest of his time squeezing the ball Madame Pomfrey had given him while watching both her and Ron closely, she noticed. His arm was getting stronger. She could see it working. She didn’t know what to make of his keen eyes on her, however.

Dinner was Harry’s first hot meal that wasn’t soup, since they’d only had cold chicken salad sandwiches for lunch with Lupin today. Dobby had prepared a delicious pot roast for dinner, and it was perfect. The meat was tender enough and the vegetables soft enough that Harry didn’t have to chew it too hard or try to use a knife in his left hand to cut it. Everything was easy enough to spear on a fork, too, so he was a lot less clumsy and, therefore, less self-conscious during this meal than he had been. Hermione marveled at how thoughtful Dobby had been in his preparations for Harry. 

Harry actually had seconds. Consuming a lot more than she thought him able, he ate until he looked utterly miserable. His jaw was hurting now, too. She could see him wincing every once in a while. But he couldn’t disappoint Dobby and waive off dessert, it seemed. He’d prepared an apple crumble for afters, which was something Hermione knew Harry liked. He could only get a few bites down, though, before he had to give up because he looked in serious danger of being ill if he tried to force anything else down. If he was lucky enough that Ron didn’t eat it all, he’d be able to have some with lunch tomorrow.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came again after they’d finished dinner themselves and stayed a short while. They were mostly just checking that Harry had recovered from the scare he’d given them all the day before, but Mrs. Weasley pulled Hermione aside before they left, whispering hurriedly in her ear while Ron and Mr. Weasley were occupied. She could feel Harry’s eyes on her, watching the two of them as they put their heads together.

“Hermione, dear,” Molly began. “Ron’s birthday is just around the corner, and we’d love it if we could have you all over to Muriel’s for a nice birthday dinner. Or if Harry isn’t up to the trip, we could maybe have it here.”

Hermione hadn’t thought about anything as ordinary as a birthday dinner in so long. She remembered when she and Harry had gone to Godric’s Hollow and she realized it was Christmas Eve. They’d done nothing so much as even acknowledge any other passing holiday before or since then, though. They had noted the start of the school term on September first, however, partly, she remembered, because there was a group of Death Eaters standing outside the house, waiting foolishly to see if they were planning to march off to King’s Cross together to start their final year at Hogwarts. The last birthday dinner they’d all had was Harry’s seventeenth at the Burrow, which had been interrupted by the Minister of Magic. She’d turned eighteen quietly in September, simply marking the day off in her head. Everything had just fallen to the wayside during these long months of searching.

“Oh, that sounds wonderful, Mrs. Weasley,” she said, though her voice sounded flat.  “But let me think on it a bit. It’s true that Harry may not be up to the trip or to being with that large a group of people this soon.” Her eyes traveled to Harry, catching him still staring at them both. She felt the now-familiar jealousy, her grip tightening, wanting to shut them all out again. “It may be best if we just have a quiet celebration here.”

“That would be fine, too, dear, as I said, but I know that Fred, George, and Ginny would like to be here and see you all, too. Ginny’s about to go spare waiting for word from you all at Muriel’s, you know,” she told her.

Hermione felt like a prat then, hearing what Mrs. Weasley didn’t say as much as what she did:  that Hermione was the secret keeper and therefore had to give her permission for them to come. She felt ashamed of her jealous hold on Harry and Ron, knowing that they would all probably love to see Fred and George, and she knew Harry would love to see Ginny. Realizing that she was the one trying to keep them away made her feel guilty. Unable to respond, she simply nodded her head.

“Very good, dear,” Molly said. “Well, I’ll let you and Harry talk it over, then, and decide, all right? Then we’ll go from there,” she finished hurriedly as Ron and Mr. Weasley walked up.

They headed to bed shortly after Ron’s parents had left. Harry looked hesitant about taking the stairs back up again. Actually, he looked like he was dreading it. Hermione knew that it would be painful for him, but she didn’t offer any less taxing alternatives. She didn’t want a reappearance of the Harry from this morning.  He looked like he was seriously considering bunking on the couch for the evening, though. In the end, he let Ron pull him off the couch and wrap his arm around his waist without complaint. Then they began the slow climb to bed with Harry panting more heavily on every step. By the time he finally lay back against the pillows on the bed, he was completely exhausted. His face was lined with pain and his fists were clenched at his sides. He was breathing hard and his forehead was damp with sweat as he tried to get comfortable.

“Ron, can you help Harry get his pajama bottoms off, please?” she asked as she pulled the jar of clear salve Madame Pomfrey had left for him out of her bag.

“Huh?” he said.

“I need to rub this into his legs. I can’t do that with his pajama bottoms on,” she explained. “I should have done it this morning. He needs it. He’s in pain.” 

She turned around to stare at Harry, a question on her face, asking silently for his permission. After a moment, he nodded his head in agreement and scooted over into the middle of the bed before lifting his hips to help Ron pull his bottoms off. Grimacing at the strain it was putting on his wrists to hold himself off the bed even for a minute, Harry grunted with the effort.  Still, they managed, and he was stripped to his boxers in a few moments, looking apprehensively at her. She understood why now, though, and was determined to help him through this.

Hermione sat down next to him on the bed with Ron flanking his other side. The beginnings of panic started to flood into Harry’s face at their nearness as she unscrewed the lid.  Hermione inhaled deeply as the smell of fresh mint wafted out from the jar. The smell was pleasant and made her feel immediately relaxed. She’d never used it or applied it before, though judging from the reaction Madame Pomfrey had gotten out of Harry with it before, she knew it must feel very nice indeed. 

Laying the lid down on the side table, she scooped a handful from the jar. It was cold on her fingers, but not wet like lotion. It felt more greasy than anything. She decided to start from the bottom of his leg and work her way up to avoid startling him too much right off the bat.  Hoping to let him get used to the feel of it on his legs, she wanted to allow him to acclimate to the coolness of the cream and her hands on him before she attempted to work her way up to more dangerous territory.

“That smells good, actually,” Ron commented, pulling the jar from her grip. “Most of the stuff Madame Pomfrey uses or makes you take smells awful and tastes even worse.” 

Harry nodded his head in agreement.

“All right, this will be cold at first,” she warned him as she rubbed her hands together, distributing the cream over her fingers and warming it the best she could. Still, he gasped, gripping the sheets when she laid her hands on his shin. He jerked his leg a bit before catching himself and relaxing it back onto the bed. 

His skin was overly warm in her hands from the fever, and her fingers must have felt like ice to him. She worked the minty ointment into his flesh, which erupted in goose bumps as her cool fingers traveled over it. Dropping his foot into her lap again so she could get access to his calf, she massaged the muscles there and then worked back down to his foot. Once the salve started to take effect, his face finally relaxed marginally. Biting his lip, he laid his head back against the pillows and breathed deeply. 

“Feel better?” she asked.

Nodding his head, Harry closed his eyes in relief.

Once she’d rubbed it into his foot, she set that leg aside and put his other foot in her lap, reaching for the jar that Ron still held. He’d dipped his finger in it and was rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger as if testing its consistency. Hermione stopped and watched him. Unable to help herself, she waited to see if he would put it into his mouth. Sure enough, Ron stuck out his tongue and licked a bit off his own finger after a moment.

“For heaven’s sake, Ron,” she admonished with an exasperated laugh.

Harry opened his eyes to blink sleepily at the pair of them.

“What? I just wanted to see what it tasted like,” Ron explained with a shrug. 

“You amaze me,” she replied, shaking her head as she scooped another handful and started on Harry’s other leg.

“It kinda tastes like toothpaste,” Ron told them, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “Minty, you know, except it makes everything go a bit numb, too. My lips and tongue feel funny now.” Sliding off the bed, he dropped the jar beside Harry’s knee. “I’m gonna go wash it off,” he called over his shoulder, still smacking his lips as he entered the bathroom while she was finishing with Harry’s other foot.

Removing Harry’s leg from her lap when she had finished with it, she planted his foot flat on the bed and scooted it up so that his knee bent, and his thigh was now elevated enough for her to get her hands around it. His eyes popped open again, and he watched as she gathered more ointment. She moved as slowly as she could, holding his eyes as she laid her hands on his thigh and worked the ointment into it from his knee. Moving higher as she went, she watched his face as his breath sped up, his nostrils flared, and his eyes went wide.

“It’s all right,” she whispered when his eyes started to water and his grip tightened on the sheets. 

She stopped when her fingers skimmed under the edge of his boxers, which had slid up slightly from the position of his thigh. There was no reason to go all the way up to where his leg joined his body, she decided. Hermione didn’t think either of them could handle that right now, though Madame Pomfrey had when she’d applied the cream. She hadn’t had Harry sitting this close to her, however, staring right at her, and looking all kinds of terrified and aroused.

“There,” she said quietly, holding her hands up like a surgeon who’s just sterilized them.  “Let’s get the other one.” 

She tried to sound nonchalant, and let him pull his other leg up on his own, which he did eventually. Gathering her last handful of salve, she finished her work on his other thigh, and then rubbed what remained into her hands like lotion. Replacing the lid on the jar, she set it back on the table. Then they just stared at each other. Neither spoke, they only watched each other as tears filled in both their eyes. Harry’s leg was still cocked, and his hands were in his lap to cover his lingering arousal which she had blatantly ignored, pretending for his sake not to have noticed it, to ease his embarrassment.

“I’m so… sorry,” he apologized then. His voice was just barely above a whisper, that rough hoarse quality broken and unfamiliar to her ears. Then a tear crested in his emerald eyes and spilled over, sliding down beneath his glasses and along the side of his nose. 

Then she was crying, too, like a dam bursting open. Leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around him, Hermione sobbed into his neck. Needing so much to finally cry with him over what had happened to them, even though she’d cried over it so much already. 

Harry rested his head on top of hers as he slid his hand up her back and cupped the back of her head like he had in the dungeon. Then he held her to him like that again as her tears ran unchecked down her face. Taking her weight against him, he repeated his apology over and over again in a whisper, through the torrent of his own tears. They clung to each other like that until they’d cried themselves out, until his whispers finally faded away and they were both drained.  When she’d gotten control of herself again, she sat up and wiped her eyes and nose. He still looked utterly miserable, devastated. Leaning into him again, she pressed her forehead to his and cupped his face in her hands.

“I love you, Harry,” she whispered, looking into his red, watery eyes. Then she let hers fall closed as she kissed him. It was a small, lingering, chaste kiss that was still enough to startle him, though there was no heat in it. She continued to hold him, not letting him pull away. Not wanting him to panic again because she needed him to understand her. She needed him to believe her.

“It wasn’t your fault, Harry,” she told him earnestly, pulling away again to stare into his face, capturing his reluctant eyes with hers. “I don’t blame you for what happened. You’re not the one that raped me.” She paused as he trembled violently at the word. “You were just the tool she used to do it,” she went on bitterly after a moment. Bellatrix was the one who’d done that.  That evil woman had tried to destroy everything there was between them with that final cruel act she’s forced him to perform. “She would have used Greyback instead.” There was a note of horror in her voice as they both shook with revulsion at the thought. “You saved me from that, Harry,” she told him, stroking his hair now to soothe him.

Actually, it was the other way around, she thought furiously. It wasn’t Hermione that she was raping at all. Bellatrix cared nothing for her. She probably didn’t even know her name. It was Harry she was trying to destroy. Harry she was torturing into madness. Harry she was raping over and over again with whatever means were available to her. Bellatrix had used her own body, her husband, Greyback, and even Hermione, possibly others, to try and tear him apart. She would have used Ron, too. She’d planned to before she lost control and lost her hold on Harry, before she’d finally pushed him too far. She’d hoped he would collapse under the unbearable pressure, and perhaps he had for a moment, but then it exploded out of him instead, his rage consuming them. It was only afterwards when it began to consume him, too. A slower burn, yet no less destructive. She could still feel it on his skin, the flesh hot under her hands.

“It was you she was raping, Harry. It was you Bellatrix was trying to destroy.”

Harry flinched back at the name, letting out a little yelp of fear. Hermione could see his pulse pounding in his neck, his heartbeat thrumming wildly beneath the skin. Sighing deeply, she looked into his terrified eyes while still holding his face in her hands. His cheeks were damp with tears again and she wiped at them with her thumbs.

“Harry, I’m begging you,” she pleaded with him, her voice more forceful. “Please don’t make her name taboo. Don’t give her that much power over you,” she begged.  “If you do, she’ll have succeeded.” Pulling back, she dropped her hands, sitting up straight and watching him. “Don’t let her beat you, Harry,” she whispered.

He stared at her, his eyes still clouded with grief and regret. His face was a mask of misery as his eyes darted between hers and the bathroom door behind her. She knew Ron must have come out of the loo. He must be standing behind her. She turned to find him leaning against the wall, watching their exchange silently. He looked desperately sad. She wondered how long he’d been there, and how much he’d witnessed. Ron blinked and looked down, breaking eye contact with her, and so she turned back to Harry, waiting.

He sat there a long time. With his hands in his lap and his head down, he stared at his knees while he thought over her words. Waiting for his body to relax and stop shaking before drawing in a deep breath, he finally nodded, still not looking at either of them. Hermione felt her shoulders sag with relief. She felt incredibly weary all of a sudden, exhausted from such a long traumatic day. Reaching up slowly, she slid Harry’s glasses off his face before folding them and placing them on the side table. Then she stood up and collected her beaded bag. Running her fingers down Harry’s arm, she turned to Ron.

“I’d like to have my spot back in the middle,” she told him and waited for his response. 

Ron raised his eyebrows, but didn’t protest. He hated that spot anyway, she thought, and she didn’t think there was any reason for him to be protecting her from Harry any longer. After a moment, she nodded and walked past him into the bathroom.  Brushing her hand against his, she lightly gripped his fingers as she passed.

~ . ~


	17. Birthday Surprises

“I love you,” Hermione whispered as she brushed past him into the bathroom after releasing his fingers. 

The door clicked closed behind her. Ron continued to stand there, leaning against the wall, watching Harry watch him. Though without his glasses, Ron knew Harry really couldn’t make him out all that clearly. He could be pulling faces at him right now, and Harry wouldn’t be able to tell.

Ron remembered how awful Harry’s eyesight actually was when he’d taken the polyjuice potion at the Dursley's and turned into him. You never got used to it, even after as many times as he’d taken polyjuice potion now. You still never got used to being in someone else’s skin, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be in Harry’s right now. The way he described how his insides felt earlier sounded like his body had been used as a piñata or something, Ron thought in sympathy.  It looked like it had, too, and he didn’t have any desire to experience what that was like.

Drawing in a deep breath, he blew it out through his nose, pushing off from the wall where he’d been standing quietly through much of the exchange between Harry and Hermione.  He walked over and sat down on the bed, propping his back against the headboard. Harry shifted over to the far side of the bed, away from Ron, watching him with some trepidation. Neither of them said anything for a while. Then Harry reached for his journal finally and pulled it into his lap.

 _I woke up once in the night, early on, I guess, when I was finally coming round and thought I was having a dream. I thought you and Ginny were here and we were all sleeping. I could hear you snoring, and she held my hand. I was still all messed up from the potions. I guess it was Hermione though, huh?_ he wrote.

Ron gave a derisive snort after reading the words. What a vivid imagination on this one, he thought wryly. Harry has drug-induced dreams, and the best the poor sod can do is imagine himself and Ginny sleeping next to each other, doing nothing more exciting than holding hands while her older brother was asleep in the same room. Nice. Really wet-dream-inducing that must have been.

“At first we took turns on watch, you know,” he told Harry. “When we first got here, and the other one slept on the bed with you. Then your fever shot up really high one night, and we had to put you in the bath to stop you having a fit,” he explained quietly. “We all just kinda fell asleep then, exhausted, I guess. All piled up on the bed together. So we abandoned the watch, enlarged the bed, and joined you on it after that night,” he finished in a matter-of-fact tone, shrugging his shoulders. 

Harry nodded his head at the explanation of their unconventional sleeping arrangements and turned back to his journal. He twirled the quill absently between his fingers while he considered what he wanted to say before finally loading it up with ink again.

 _When did you and Hermione get together then?_ Harry wrote finally, turning his head slightly to watch Ron out of the corner of his eye as he read the words, gauging his reaction.

“How did you know?” Ron asked in surprise after a moment of stunned silence.

_Well, for one, I’m still alive, and you’re still here. I kept expecting you to beat the hell out of me every time you got near me when I first woke up. Plus, my balls are still attached after what just happened. So I figure something’s definitely up between you two. You’ve both been acting differently around each other. I’ve noticed._

“We weren’t trying to hide it from you. You know?” Ron confessed. “Still, I didn’t know we were that obvious about it either. It happened while you were sleeping,” he explained with a shrug. “And we’ve just been kinda quiet about it is all. You’re okay with it, right?” he asked after another small pause.

 _Yeah.  It’s about bloody time, actually. I’m glad for you both,_ he wrote, but his face didn’t show it. His eyes looked distant and mournful. Ron felt like he was watching a door closing in them suddenly, like a veil had fallen across them. It was as if Harry had just locked something away behind them. He looked lonely, Ron thought.

“Thanks, mate,” he said after a moment, studying Harry’s profile as Harry looked back to his journal and flicked the corner of the page with his fingernail. 

 _I’m sorry for what happened to her,_ he wrote then. As if he were separate from it, an observer to all that happened there in the dungeons. Then he paused and scratched at the back of his neck nervously for a moment before continuing. _For what I did to her,_ he finished, taking ownership of it again. Accepting the burden of it back onto himself. But he didn’t look at Ron this time, couldn’t meet his eyes as Ron read his words.

What was he supposed to say to that? Hey, no problem, mate? I know you couldn’t help it? It’s all right, but don’t let it happen again? Thanks for not leaving her for Greyback? I’ll fucking kill you for touching her? Or maybe, Why didn’t you kill them all when you had the chance, goddamn you? What?  he wondered as he watched Harry start to fiddle nervously with the end of his quill in the silence that was stretching between them. Because Hermione had the right end of it, he decided. None of those bastards gave a shit about the two of them. They were trying to take down Harry. He and Hermione were just pawns in Bellatrix’s game. If Harry hadn’t surrendered to them in the woods, he and Hermione would probably have been dead within hours, or left to rot there hanging from the walls, forgotten. 

No, he thought. They’d have been used for bait, used to lure Harry out. That’s what they were to them, bait.

Was he happy about what Harry did? No. Did he wish it had never happened? Hell yes. Did he believe that Harry had done everything in his power to protect them and get them the hell out of there? Unquestionably yes, without a doubt. Did he think Harry needed to carry the burden of guilt around with him forever over it? No, but he knew he would anyway. 

Rubbing his forehead with his fingers and pinching the bridge of his nose, Ron blew out a frustrated sigh. He could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. He didn’t want to think about this shit anymore today. Didn’t want to see it played again for him in his mind. 

 _Oh, my, God! Why did Bellatrix have to be such a fucking lunatic bitch?_ he thought furiously. 

He felt like starting his own list of people he wanted to beat the shit out of now, like Harry’s. People he wanted revenge against for Hermione and Harry and the hell he’d watched them both suffering through today. He wished Lupin hadn’t killed Greyback right now just so he could’ve done it himself, or helped hold the fucker down, at least, so Harry could. Most of all, he wanted Bellatrix on her knees in the dirt like Harry had been, begging for her life like she’d made him beg for theirs in the dungeon. Ron wanted to see fear in her eyes. He wanted to watch as Harry burned the flesh from her body with those weird flames.

He could feel the heat rising in his face, his ears going red in fury as his hands shook from the anger coursing through him. He hated them all, but his sudden lust for violence was unexpected. The overwhelming desire took him by surprise and scared him a bit. He’d never really considered whether he could kill someone, or not before. Now he knew the answer, and he was afraid at how easy he thought it would be, and how certain he was that he could. 

Sighing again, he tried to release the tension in his neck, to relax his fisted hands, to calm down, because it was making his head pound. He knew he was scaring the shit out of Harry, too, with his silence, but he still didn’t know what to say to him.

“I know you are,” he said finally when his head gave another twinge of pain. Then he reached out a hand to still Harry’s, which was now shredding his quill. 

Harry looked up at him, searching his face with his lips pressed together. He looked pale and drained. His eyes were red rimmed and puffy, filled with confusion and regret. 

“Go to sleep, Harry,” Ron said wearily.

After staring at him a moment longer, Harry finally nodded his head with weary relief, and placed the battered quill in his journal like a bookmark before closing it. Then he ran his hand over the cover, which had become a sort of ritual for him, like he was saying goodbye or something, before placing it on the side table. Scooting down on the bed then, he pulled the blanket over himself, rolling away from Ron to face the wall.

Ron sat there thinking for a minute, watching Harry settle into his pillow while he stared at the back of his head. Then he slid off the bed and pulled his jeans off and then his shirt before crawling back into the bed in just his boxers, like Harry. He figured he may as well sleep the same way. Hermione had the bag with all his clothes with her anyway.  

Returning from the bathroom a few minutes later, she padded barefoot over to his side of the bed. She’d picked out another of his t-shirts to sleep in tonight. Apparently she’d abandoned her own dressing gowns now in favor of his old shirts and a pair of knickers. This one was his Chudley Cannons t-shirt, which was old and ragged, worn thin in spots, with the lettering fading across the front and the hem pulling loose. Still, she looked brilliant in it. Even with her face scrubbed raw after crying her heart out on Harry a few minutes before.

Hermione stood staring down at him and waited, not saying a word while he watched her. He sat up finally and turned to her, sliding his arms around her waist, gathering the worn fabric of his shirt around her back. Pulling it taut against her stomach and breasts, he laid his head against her belly, holding her to him like that for a minute before she slid her hand over his neck and up into his hair. 

She carded her fingers through his overly long locks so that his hair stuck up in rows from where her fingers plowed paths through it. Then she smoothed it flat again before repeating the movement over and over while he continued to hold her. It felt good against the headache that was blooming behind his closed eyelids.

“What’s happening here?” he finally asked, barely above a whisper, after a long while.  After he was sure Harry had relaxed into sleep. The words felt like they were being dragged from him because he didn’t really want to ask her. He didn’t want to know the answer, or was afraid to hear it.

“I’m in love with you, Ron,” she answered simply, understanding his meaning instantly, still stroking his hair.

“But you love Harry, too?” he asked her, frowning into her shirt, his shirt.

“Yes… no,” she said with a sigh. “Not in the same way, Ron, no,” she tried to explain as his fingers pulsed against her waist reflexively. “I do love him. We both do.” Then she reached out to cup his chin, to turn it up to hers. “I’ll admit, Ron, that I’m feeling very confused about Harry lately. About all of us.” She spoke slowly, as if she were choosing her words carefully.

“You think it’s a mistake, us being together?” he asked, his voice laced with fear as he stared up into her face. “Do you want to be shot of me?”

“No, no, of course not,” she replied hurriedly, shaking her head firmly.

“Do you want some distance then? From me? From us?” He pulled away from her and sat up straight, dropping his hands to his sides. “You need to sort it out?”

“No, Ron, please. I don’t want that at all,” she said, going to her knees on the floor in front of him and grasping his hands in hers. “Why are you saying that? Do you? Do you want to throw this away?” she asked, sounding desperate herself.

“No. But I… I can’t watch it either,” he whispered, his voice starting to shake.  “I can’t bear it if you choose him.”

“There was never a choice to be made, Ron,” she said quickly, leaning in closer so that they were inches apart. “There is no competition. It’s always been you. I swear it. Please believe me,” she begged him earnestly, squeezing his hands and staring into his face, pleading with her eyes which had filled with fresh tears. “I just feel like I need to be close to him, Ron. That _we_ need to be close to him. He’s still floundering, still teetering on the edge, and I feel like we’re the only ones who can help him, can pull him back. We’re the only ones who know the hell he’s been through,” she told him quickly, her voice quavering. “I just want to comfort him however he’ll let me. Can you understand that?” she asked, searching his face for understanding. “I love you,” she whispered then, when he didn’t respond, leaning even closer to him, asking his permission, waiting for his forgiveness. 

After a moment he reached up and cupped her face, running his thumb across her lips, lips that had been so recently pressed against Harry’s, as if to wipe the memory of it away.   Then he closed the distance between them.

“You have all the power here,” he breathed against her mouth. His eyes squeezed shut against the weight of his admission. “Please don’t play with me. Don’t tear me apart with it,” he begged her.

“I’m not playing, Ron,” she whispered back, pressing her lips firmly to his. Then she turned to plant a kiss into his open palm. 

Ron felt jealous, angry with her, and maybe Harry, too, and then guilty for having those feelings. He felt confused and aggressive, hungry for her. He felt bruised. He wanted to make her his again after watching her with Harry earlier, reminding him too much of seeing them together in the dungeon. He needed to be with her right now, his need to possess her was too strong. The familiar buzzing was starting to grow in his head again, the stabbing pain behind his eyes moving into the background as everything seemed to shift to the sides, removing any impediment in his path to her. 

He slid off the bed to join her on the floor. Kneeling in front of her now, their bodies pressed together while he captured her lips possessively and crushed her to him. Tasting her, he felt as if he could taste Harry on her, too, though he knew it was his imagination. Still, he worked to wipe away all traces of him from her with his tongue. His hands wound in her hair, and grasping handfuls of it in his fists, he pulled her head back while she moaned into his mouth and clutched his arms. Ron held her captive, bending her backwards, their lips still fused together as he slid his hand down her arm to circle her wrist. He pulled her hand to him, to where he needed her most and slid his hand over hers. 

She gasped into his mouth as he squeezed her hand around his throbbing erection, stroking himself through the thin cotton of his boxers with her hand and rocking into her grip. Trying to show her how much power she had over him, he tried to show her how much he needed her. He released her hand then to grab her again by the head with both hands, to continue to reclaim her mouth for himself. 

Hermione released him, and he growled in protest. But she was already slipping her hand down inside the waistband of his boxers, her warm questing fingers ghosting over him while he sucked in a breath and held it. The blood was pounding painfully behind his eyes again, though he hardly noticed. He froze, holding himself perfectly still, waiting. 

She slid her fingers over him, and his eager cock jerked in response. Running them slowly down his length and then underneath, she inspected him with her fingers, testing his weight in her palm. She rubbed the backs of her knuckles against his flesh and then pressed his cock up against his belly, trapping it there while she stroked her thumb over the flesh at the base.

“The skin is so soft,” she marveled as she turned her hand to slide her palm over him again. “Like velvet.” She ran her thumb around the rim and then across the slit, coating it with his arousal. Hermione was teasing him, he thought, with her slow examination, but her face showed nothing but genuine curiosity mixed with her own desire.

“Show me how,” she whispered to him, sliding her hand around his shaft fully then, and giving him an experimental squeeze.

“However you touch me feels good,” he rasped, reaching for his own waistband to push his boxers down his legs. Freeing himself.

“But I want to know how to do it,” she told him. “Show me how it feels best.” There was a purr in her voice that Ron hadn’t heard in it before. It made him grow even harder in her hand, if that was possible.

Ron stared at her as he slowly pulled her hand up to his mouth and licked her palm. Then he replaced it on his aching cock and wrapped her fingers around it, placing his hand over hers.  He continued to watch her face as she watched their hands working together over his knob. He lubricated her palm more with his desire as he slid her hand up and down. Twisting gently, pulling hard, and squeezing the head as he pushed back through her fist, he pumped his hips slightly to help slide himself in and out of her grip. Then he released her hand and she continued on her own. 

He tilted his head back because he couldn’t watch her face anymore, and he sure as hell couldn’t watch her hands as he continued to fuck her fist. Losing himself in the feeling of her delicate fingers wrapped around him, his mouth fell open in a moan as she struck up a rhythm. 

“Oh, God, that feels good,” he groaned up at the ceiling, his eyes falling closed as she continued to stroke him. Then she cupped his balls with her other hand and ran her fingers over them, scratching lightly with her nails. “Shit,” he gasped, sucking in a startled breath as he snapped his head back up to stare at her in surprise. 

He found her staring back at him, her eyes wide, her mouth parted, watching his reaction as she continued to fondle and stroke him. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and he reached for her then, stilling her hands on him to slide her knickers down her thighs, to join his around their knees. 

“Spread your legs for me,” he commanded, though the words were barely over a whisper.

“Oh,” she moaned, her breath hitching as she slid her legs apart as far as her knickers would allow, still trapped around her knees. The elastic was digging into the smooth flesh of her thighs as she opened herself to him, and he jerked in her hand at the sight of her waiting for him. 

Running a hand down her flat stomach, which quivered under his touch, Ron molded the fabric of his t-shirt against her skin. Dipping a finger into the hollow of her navel and then down, below the shirt, to cup her mons. His hand pressed firmly against her as she tipped her hips up into his palm and rubbed against him. Then he slipped a finger inside her, and her legs trembled at the intrusion. She let out a long breathy moan as he stroked her. 

“God, you’re so wet,” he told her, his voice an octave lower than normal from his arousal. He pulled his finger back and ran it along her opening, slicking the lips of her pussy with her own juices and then lightly over her clit. Then they both moaned when he inserted a second finger inside her moist heat, and she stroked him in response. 

Ron pumped his fingers in and out of her while Hermione continued to fist his cock, matching his rhythm. Then he added his thumb, rubbing it over her hardened nub, and she released him. Grasping his shoulders with both hands now and rocking her hips into his palm, Hermione abandoned him for her own pleasure, fucking herself against his fingers. He grasped her arse with his free hand, pulling her into him, pressing their bodies together, and helping her grind herself against his hand.

“Do you like that?” he asked, leaning down to her, breathing the words into her ear as she gripped his shoulders harder. 

Her fingernails dug into his skin as she nodded her head, mewling weakly. God, she was driving him crazy. He wanted to taste her, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to be inside her. He wanted to watch her slide herself onto his cock instead of his fingers.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he growled, pulling his fingers out of her to grasp her arse more firmly, to spread her further open for him as he crushed their hips together. His throbbing cock was sliding against her wet entrance as he tried to push himself into her, though it was impossible at this angle.

“Yes,” she begged, rubbing the wet lips of her pussy over his length while he continued to try and burrow his way inside her, trying to curl her hips up into him. Then with a growl of frustration, he turned her, pushing her onto her hands as he scrambled to position himself behind her, dying to get inside her. His eyes went black with desire at the invitation before him, her pale cheeks marked with the impressions of his hands. Her folds were pink and glistening as he pressed into her, stretching her open. 

Sheathing himself fully in that incredible heat, Ron ran a hand down her back then, twisting the shirt in his fist, pulling it tight against her. He grasped her hip with the other while she pushed back against him impatiently. Her legs shook as he slid out slowly, pulling almost all the way out of her before driving back in.

“Oh, God!” she gasped as their bodies slammed together. 

Ron watched himself disappearing inside her while she threw back her head and braced herself against the assault. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back as he hammered into her. She opened her mouth in a guttural moan as he took her roughly, urgently, in rhythm with the pounding of his skull. He was in no mood to be gentle with her tonight, though she didn’t seem to mind.

“Shhhhh,” he warned as her cries grew louder, threatening to wake Harry. She bit down on her lips then, trying to stifle the sounds as he continued to drill into her. 

Jesus, it felt good, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. He was going to come if he didn’t slow it down, and she was still making too much noise. The sounds of her pleasure and their bodies slapping together was driving him crazy, too, making him want to join in, but if it woke Harry up, he might seriously freak out and hurt someone, which was not the way he saw this ending, though he could think of worse ways to die.

Leaning down then, curling around her back, Ron wrapped an arm around her waist.  Pulling her with him, he sat back on his haunches between her legs, her back braced against his chest as she straddled his thighs. She mewled slightly in protest of their change in position as he slid her damp hair to one side, his mouth at her ear.

“Are you close, Hermione?” he whispered hoarsely as she began to roll her hips over him.

“Yeesss!” she hissed, gripping his sides hard and arching her back, trying to continue to fuck herself on him, though his hand around her waist was preventing her from moving very much. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he asked as he ran a hand to her throat, sliding her head back onto his shoulder, while the hand at her waist dipped down between her legs to stroke her. 

“Yes, Ron,” she cried desperately as he pressed up into her and whispered into her ear.

“Shhhhh.  If you can’t be quiet, we’ll have to stop, love,” he teased, running his tongue along the shell of her ear while he continued to stroke her clit, and she bucked against him in frustration.

“No… no,” she panted.  “I’m sorry… I’ll be quiet… please,” she begged, still rolling her hips against him, squeezing her inner muscles around him, her legs quivering.

Good God. She must have been right on the edge, he thought, leaning up then to give himself some room to maneuver. She’d already started moaning again in anticipation as he pulled his hips back, sliding out of her slightly and then back in, while he slowly circled her sensitive nub.

“Do you want me to go slow or fast?” he asked still moving agonizingly slowly in and out of her, working her with his fingers. 

She dug her nails into his sides in response. It hurt, actually.

“Faster, I need you to go faster, Ron, please,” she begged huskily, and he obliged, the next stroke causing a yelp to escape her. 

She clamped her lips closed, trying her best to remain quiet, but two more strokes and she was keening loudly again, so very close to her own orgasm. He slid his hand over her mouth then, muffling the sound while he drove into her, ramming his hips up into her while his fingers diddled her furiously, until he could feel her scream behind his hand and clamp down around his cock, shaking all over with a violent orgasm. 

“You feel so fucking good, ‘Mione,” he panted in her ear, groaning as he continued to pound into her, his own orgasm rushing towards him. A half dozen more strokes and he was biting down on her shoulder to stifle his own yells as he exploded inside her. 

Ron released her mouth to wrap his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides. He held her to him as he jerked inside her until he was spent. Then he pressed his forehead into her shoulder, breathing hard, his head now pounding to the beat of his heart. 

“I think I’m bleeding from your fingernails in my sides,” he panted weakly, the breath pebbling the sweat-dampened skin on her back when he was able to speak again.

“I’m sorry. I was trying not to go face first into the carpet,” she apologized, sliding out of his lap to sit facing him on the floor. “I think these knickers are ruined,” she complained then, kicking them off her legs. “And they might have left permanent marks on my thighs.”

 

* * *

 

Ron woke in the morning flat on his back with his leg dangling off the side of the bed. Hermione’s hair was in his face again, tickling his nose. She was still asleep, curled into his side with her hand on his chest. He’d slept better than he had in days, his headache from the night before completely gone. It left him feeling totally relaxed and fully rested. He really did hate the middle. If it suited Hermione, she could have it, he decided. Yawning hugely, he blinked his eyes open, spitting out her hair. Besides, it looked like she was right about Harry anyway. He seemed to be just fine during the night with her next to him, Ron thought with relief. He’d be glad to scratch that off his list of worries. He hoped that last night might have fixed some of the problems between them, and in the light of day, he felt a lot better about it than he had last night, the fear and the jealousy he had felt then all but gone now.

He slid her arm off his chest and sat up on the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, his back popping as he stretched one arm over his head and yawned again. Picking up Hermione’s bag, he turned, heading for the bathroom. She’d rolled over, her back to him now, looking to replace his warmth with Harry’s, maybe, but the other side of the bed was empty. Ron stared at the spot a minute in shock, unable to process that Harry wasn’t there. He felt panic setting in immediately. 

_What the hell?_

He hurried around to Harry’s side of the bed to see if he’d fallen out of it or something, but he wasn’t there. Then he turned quickly to the bathroom. The door was closed. He held his breath and listened, but all was silent on the other side. The feelings of panic intensified. 

Was Harry in there? he wondered. Was he all right? Was everything that happened yesterday too much for him to take? What was he going to find on the other side of that door? 

Shaking, he walked slowly to it, feeling dread creeping in on him. He was picturing Harry like they’d found him that first night, bleeding out into the tub. Oh, God, he wouldn’t, would he?  They were past that stage, weren’t they? 

His hand was on the door, but he was afraid to open it. Fighting with himself, trying to calm his breathing, he tried the handle. It wasn’t locked, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad sign. He pushed the door open silently and looked inside. 

Harry was in the bathtub. His eyes were closed with his head lying against the back of the tub, and his arms draped over the sides. He was deathly still, but the water in the bath was clear, not tinged red. The wounds on Harry’s arms were still sealed and healing, not weeping blood. He saw Harry’s chest rise as his lungs filled with air, and Ron’s whole body sagged. Blowing out a relieved breath, he sucked in an angry one, feeling his ears going red as he came fully into the room.

“You prick!” he shouted, startling Harry so badly that he jerked violently. Water splashed over the sides of the tub and onto the floor as he floundered in frightened alarm. “What the fuck, Harry?” Ron demanded. Then he heard Hermione come awake on the bed with a start, too, but he was still too angry to care right now. “What in the hell are you playing at?” he asked, jabbing an accusing finger at Harry then, before he could even open his mouth to reply. Ron felt so angry at him for the fright he’d just given him.

“Ron?” Hermione called from the bedroom. “What’s happened?” she asked, sounding frightened. Then Ron heard her stumbling out of the bed.

“What did I do?” Harry asked bewildered, his eyes round with shock. His voice was still raspy and hoarse, but clearer by far than it had been.  “Why are you angry with me?” he continued more quietly, staring up at Ron, genuinely dumbfounded. 

Then Hermione was next to him, crowding into the bathroom with them. Gripping her wand, she stared around in confusion. Harry clutched the rag to himself and pulled his knees up. Looking outraged by his lack of privacy, he was starting to get angry himself now at the intrusion.

“I woke up and you weren’t in the bedroom,” Ron shouted. “The bathroom door was shut. What was I supposed to think?” he asked, accusation in his tone as he gesticulated wildly.

“Uh… maybe that I’d like to take a piss for once on my own, in private?” Harry responded indignantly. 

They just glared at each other then, the anger seeming to flood out of Ron and into Harry, leaving him feeling foolish at his overreaction. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, I thought you might be carving yourself up like a Christmas turkey in here? Jesus, this day was starting out beautifully. Just about on par with all the others so far. A real fucking mess. 

“Feeling better today, then?” Hermione finally asked Harry, ending the staring contest between them as he looked up at her.

“A lot more steady on my feet today, yes,” Harry replied, though his voice was starting to fracture over the words again. “Would it be all right if I finished my bath now, please? Without an audience?” he asked, still clearly irritated, though his words were said softly, trying to prolong his ability to speak them because his voice was in danger of giving out on him again.

“I’m sorry,” Ron apologized to Harry then. “I just panicked, I guess, when you weren’t in bed,” he explained.

Harry nodded his understanding, though it was clear he’d not forgiven the rudeness.

“Would you like me to put the cream on your legs again after you’ve finished your bath?” Hermione asked, trying to relieve the awkwardness that had settled over all of them.  

Pointing to the sink where he’d placed the jar, Harry replied coolly, “I’ll do it myself, thanks.”

“All right then,” she said, nodding at the clear dismissal, and pulled on Ron’s hand to drag him out of the room. 

Ron paused and dropped Hermione’s bag on the back of the toilet, leaving it for Harry, before he followed Hermione out of the room and closed the door behind him. 

“Just once, I’d like to wake up without you two yelling at each other in the bathroom,” she said in exasperation. 

Ron just nodded, and crawled back onto the bed to lay face down, feeling stupid. It felt like he and Hermione were taking turns driving Harry mad or something. It was a good thing Harry was getting along more on his own. They all needed a little distance from one another, he thought. They needed to get out of each other’s way. They were crawling all over each other.  Harry had never been one to suffer that kind of smothering protection well anyway. He’d lived with it all through their third and fifth years at Hogwarts— people following him around, taking turns guarding him, locking him up for his own protection. Now he and Hermione were doing the same thing to him.

“Ron?” Hermione called, coming over to sit in the chair. 

He rolled onto his back, an arm thrown over his forehead.

“I need to talk to you about something,” she said then, and waited. He lifted his head to stare at her, and she continued. “Your mother wants to have a birthday party for you, either here or at Muriel’s,” she announced. “I’m sure she wanted it to be a surprise, but under the circumstances with Harry and all, I thought you should be forewarned. She wants the twins and Ginny to come. And I don’t know how Harry will feel about it, but it’s your party. We could get Remus to stay with Harry and go ourselves to Muriel’s, if you think that would be better. I really don’t think it’s a good idea to take Harry over there, though. He’s still too unpredictable, I think, and it’s still so early in his recovery. Trying to Apparate with him might be inadvisable, too.”

“I didn’t even realize my birthday was coming up,” he said in some surprise, and then after a moment’s thought, “I think we could all use a little Fred and George in our lives right now, especially Harry, and I know he’d want to see Ginny.” He was quiet for several seconds, thinking it over. “It wouldn’t be right to leave him here.” 

Ron knew Harry would never stand for it if they tried to bring in a minder for him, even if it was Lupin, because that’s exactly how he’d see it. He was reminded again at how Harry despised being wrapped in cotton, like he was made of glass, or something. Jesus, he wouldn’t like to see how that conversation would go over. 

“Hell, they’d all probably be more interested in seeing Harry than me, anyway. Ginny for sure,” he told her. “If they come here, though, I’m not kidding, Hermione, I’m meeting them at the door and giving them an orientation. I’m laying down the ground rules before they ever set eyes on him.”

“Yes, that’s why I thought it best to talk it over with you first. Even if it meant spoiling the surprise for you.”

“You are planning on telling Harry, right?” he asked her, sitting up.

“Well, not until we settle on a plan. I think if we ask him or tell him too soon, he’ll flat refuse.”

“I know he will. Harry’s not going to like this at all,” he warned her. 

“I know, but he can’t stay cocooned in this house forever. I don’t want them to show up here without warning and surprise him. I’ve seen how he reacts to that, but I don’t want to give him too much time to panic or stew on it either. I’m afraid he’ll work himself up over it. So I think it’s best to tell him a few hours before they arrive. What do you think?” she asked.

“I think this is going to blow up in our faces, is what I think,” he replied grimly.

“Yes, perhaps,” she agreed. “But you try telling your mother ‘no,’ Ron.”

When Harry finally came out of the bathroom, he was dressed in a pair of his gray pajama bottoms and a red t-shirt. It was a good color on him, Ron thought, but he looked weird for some reason. He just looked different. Fully clothed for the first time in weeks, he appeared a lot less frail with most of his injuries now covered. His thin frame was hidden by the loose-fitting shirt and pajama bottoms he wore. He was pink-skinned and healthy looking from the bath with his damp hair combed as neatly as his would allow, and his chin was smooth again, too. He’d been quite thorough this morning. His eyes were clear and bright, looking more like his old self than Ron had seen in ages.  It made him feel hopeful again after the fear he’d felt when he’d found him missing from the bed earlier.

He and Hermione both stood at Harry’s entrance from the bath. Ron started forward to help him, but Harry stilled him with a wave of his hand.

“I can do it,” he said quietly, walking slowly towards them while holding Ron off with his hand. 

Harry sure was feeling awfully independent today, Ron thought, which bothered him for some reason. It suddenly seemed like a bad omen. Even though he was just thinking they needed some separation from each other, Ron felt uneasy that Harry was the one initiating it. It felt like he was shutting them out, and he didn’t like it at all.

“My turn,” Hermione called cheerfully as she met Harry in the middle of the room. She reached up to cup his face and kiss his cheek, and Ron watched him stiffen slightly. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she told him as if she hadn’t noticed, tugging her bag from his grip.

Maybe Harry’s reaction was just that he and Hermione were still in a shockingly small amount of clothing. Maybe that was the reason why he was trying to keep them at arm’s length and seeming so distant this morning. Or maybe he was still pissed at them for barging in on him in the bath. They were used to Harry being half-dressed or less, but he wasn’t used to them. Ron was just in his boxers, and Hermione was in Ron’s t-shirt and her panties. No jeans, no bra. Good lord, they definitely needed some distance from each other. This was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

Feeling uncomfortably naked now himself, he got off the bed and slid his jeans on from last night, then grabbed his shirt as well, trying to make Harry more comfortable. “You want to head down?” he asked, tugging the shirt over his head as Harry moved slowly to the side table to collect his journal. 

Harry nodded his head in agreement, and then turned back towards the door.

“I still need a quick shower, but I’ll take one downstairs.” 

He met Harry at the foot of the bed, but didn’t reach out for him. Letting Harry wrap his arm around his neck, Ron allowed him to decide when he wanted the help. He smelled like mint from the ointment he’d rubbed on his legs, and soap. It was nice. He was warm, too, still fevered.  Ron could feel it radiating off of him.

When they’d finally made it to the drawing room, Ron left Harry in Dobby’s care while he finally got his shower. By the time he’d returned, Lupin and Madame Pomfrey had arrived.  Lupin looked a lot better since the last visit, and they both stayed through breakfast. The fever was frustrating Madame Pomfrey, but otherwise she pronounced Harry much improved. Although, if Harry’s insides were still feeling like mincemeat today, he wasn’t telling. 

He’d come a long way in a very short time considering how badly he was injured, Ron thought. Maybe it was another gift from Greyback, another side effect of the bites. If so, it would be about the only good thing that had happened to him. A little bit faster healing would go a longer way on Harry than just about anyone Ron knew because Harry spent a hell of a lot of time injured. One of the many perks of being The Boy Who Lived, he supposed, grimly.

“Ron and Hermione told me that you used wandless magic at the Malfoy’s, Harry,” Lupin said when breakfast had been cleared away. “Can you tell me about that?” he asked curiously. “Do you remember?”

Harry stalled for time, taking a sip of water from his glass, and stroking the journal in his lap once before deciding to speak instead. It seemed clear to Ron, however, that Harry really didn’t want to discuss it with them at all. There was a lot of painful shit tied up in those memories.

“It happened a couple of times while we were there,” Harry answered finally, keeping his voice low to hold onto it. “When I was really afraid,” he said even more quietly. 

He looked ashamed, which was stupid, Ron thought, because there was a hell of a lot to be afraid of there. Hell, he was terrified the whole time and they’d barely touched him. He’d have screamed hysterically if they’d tried to take him like they did Harry, but Harry never made a sound when they came for him. Even after it started and he knew what he was in for. Harry never showed fear, at least not where Ron and Hermione could see him, anyway. Ron certainly didn’t think Harry had anything to be ashamed of. 

“It’s happened before, though,” Harry continued. “Even after I’d started Hogwarts. I blew up my aunt before third year, you remember?” he asked Ron and Hermione, and they both nodded. “And I shocked my uncle into turning me loose once when he tried to throttle me.”

“When he did what?” Ron asked, outraged, but Harry merely shrugged his shoulders as if it was no big deal. He acted as if it was a normal part of life with the muggles, and maybe it was.  Ron knew Harry hated it there. He knew the Dursley’s were foul people and his cousin was a great bullying prick, but Harry had always been pretty closemouthed about what went on during the summer hols. Well, Harry was pretty closemouthed about everything, really.

“Can you control it?” Lupin asked then. “Has it only happened when you’re scared?”

“No… well, yes,” Harry answered. “I’m scared most times, but usually really angry, too.  And no, I can’t control it, I don’t think. Why?”

“You shielded Ron and me, Harry, before we escaped. You knew what you were doing then,” Hermione interjected, contradicting him. “You used your magic deliberately then. Do you remember that?”

“I don’t have amnesia,” he responded hotly, his anger coming quick today, Ron thought.  Harry pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes closed a minute, getting himself back under control before continuing. “I remember feeling like I was going to explode. Like it was expanding inside me, and I was afraid of hurting both of you because I was certainly planning to hurt somebody,” he growled hoarsely, his fists clenching at his sides, causing the scars on his wrists to go white before releasing them again. “That’s the first time I can remember knowing it was coming. I don’t think I can control when it happens, but that time I could control it once it started. Do you know what I mean?” he asked, but apparently none of them did because they all just stared at him.

“Do you know how you broke the wards at the Burrow? Or how you Apparated out of Malfoy Manor?” Lupin asked then, but Harry just shook his head.

“No. I just wanted to get out us out of there,” he told Lupin, looking drained. “I think Draco had given us back our wands by then, though.”  He shrugged, appearing confused, unsure of the memory. 

Surprisingly, Hermione didn’t try to fill in the blanks or contradict him again, but Harry never had a wand. He wouldn’t let Draco near enough to hand them to him. Ron was the one holding all the wands when Harry Apparated with them, or whatever he’d done.

“Well, it’s a very useful tool to have in your arsenal, Harry,” Lupin told him. “Most wizards can’t do much wandless magic. Not of that magnitude, anyway.”

“That’s why your magic was so drained,” Madame Pomfrey spoke then. “It’s much harder to channel magic without a wand. It takes a lot more energy, and in your physical condition… well, it’s remarkable, really.”

Harry didn’t appear to have anything to say to that. He looked extremely uncomfortable with the way the visit had turned into an interrogation. Still, he was handling it pretty well, Ron thought.

Their visitors left not long after, and then the three of them were alone again for a while.  Ron didn’t mind the company, but he felt the tension rise in all of them while someone else was here, and he didn’t feel like he could take a proper breath until they’d left again.

His parents came a few hours later, and Ron had the unenviable task of telling his mother that Hermione had leaked her birthday plans to him. She was put out at first, but once he’d convinced her that Hermione had done what she thought was best for all of them, especially where Harry was concerned, she relented. It wasn’t that hard, to be honest. Ron had figured out years ago that you could use Harry as an excuse to get out of just about anything with her, ever since the time he and the twins had stolen the car to rescue Harry from the Dursley’s. As soon as she had seen Harry that morning, her anger at them was all but forgotten. His mum had a serious soft spot for the skinny little messy-haired orphan boy. And Harry played the part beautifully, with those huge doleful eyes. Plus, he flat adored her back, which pretty much sealed the deal.  The prat. Still, it came in useful sometimes.

She agreed to keep it quiet around Harry for now, too, which he was still going along with against his better judgment, and they agreed to hold the get-together at dinner the following evening. His birthday wasn’t for two more days, but he really wanted to get this over with. Ron was dreading it already. He just wanted to be on the other side of it.

Before they left, Hermione slipped Mrs. Weasley the address on a piece of parchment spelled for Ginny and the twins’ eyes only. She was being very cautious about that, really controlling who was allowed in, and he was grateful. It was already starting to feel like headquarters of the Order again with the number of people coming and going, and he wasn’t any more eager than Hermione to add to that list. The whole thing made him feel paranoid.

The next day dawned and Harry looked better still. He only needed help managing the stairs now. He was getting around much better on his own. A few good meals in Harry had really helped, he thought. It’s what he’d said all along; all the poor bloke needed was a few dozen sandwiches in him, and he’d be fine. 

By early afternoon, however, Ron was really starting to feel panicky about dinner because Hermione still hadn’t told Harry, and she’d said she would. Ron kept glaring at her, but it seemed she hadn’t worked out what she was going to say or hadn’t worked up the nerve.  Harry, for his part, must have thought they were having some kind of row. He seemed to be trying to stay clear of both of them, casting worried glances between them.

When she finally got up her courage to tell him, though, Ron was soon wishing she hadn’t. It was even worse than he’d imagined it would be. Harry was furious and nearly hysterical, terrified that they were coming and angry that they hadn’t told him. He shouted until his voice left him again, rendering him mute and even more furious for it. He was so angry there were tears in his eyes. He looked mutinous when she refused to call it off. And then Hermione got mad right back.

“Harry, this is a birthday party for Ron,” she said, trying to guilt him into acquiescence.  “If you don’t want to see anybody, then fine, you can carry yourself back upstairs and stay there.  But you’re being ridiculous,” she told him.

Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously at the veiled threat to make him manage the stairs on his own. Even Ron gave her a warning look, feeling like she’d gone over the line with that comment. She knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own, at least not without a lot of pain and effort.

“You’ve done fine with Madame Pomfrey, with Lupin, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Harry. It’s just Fred, George, and Ginny,” she reasoned. But when that didn’t work either, she pulled her last card.

“Harry,” she said, pulling a potion flask from her bag, the one Madame Pomfrey had given her with the minty ointment. At the sight of it, Harry’s eyes went wide with fear, and his hands started to shake. 

 _Bad move_ , Ron thought, _big mistake, Hermione_. Though for his part he was keeping his fat gob shut. This was her fight, and he didn’t want any part of it. He was just trying to make sure it didn’t get any uglier. He was starting to fear that he was going to have to stupefy one or the other of them before it was over.

“Madame Pomfrey gave me this calming draught when you stopped taking the pain medicine. I asked her for it, just in case,” she confessed. “I think you should take a dose. You’re too worked up, and you’ll still be under its effects by the time they arrive,” she told him. “That way you won’t have to worry. You’ll be calm and everything will be just fine.”

Ron held his tongue, though he thought it was shitty to ask Harry to drug himself up for a stupid party. Damn it! He knew this whole thing was a bad idea. 

Harry just stared at her. He looked devastated at what Hermione was asking from him, trying to blink back tears. Then he nodded his head in defeat, finally giving in to her. Hermione looked relieved, but that’s not the way Ron felt at all as he watched a tear escape down Harry’s cheek when he took the dose she offered him. He felt dread. He felt like she’d just broken something inside Harry. She might be the smartest witch of her age, but this was the dumbest idea she’d ever had. Ron was sure of it.

A full ten minutes before his family were due to arrive, he’d set up camp in the entrance hall. Sitting on the bottom step of the landing, Ron waited anxiously for them, though not because he was eager to get this party started. Instead, it couldn’t possibly be over soon enough for his liking.This day hadn’t begun well, and Ron didn’t see it ending well either.

The potion Hermione had given Harry had sure done its job, though. He was nearly catatonic again on the couch in the drawing room, and he had been for the last two hours. His face was slack and his eyes were dull. He barely moved, and he hadn’t spoken a single word since she’d dosed him. It was terrifying. He hadn’t even assisted or resisted Hermione when she threaded his limp arms through a flannel shirt she’d brought down in an attempt to hide the worst of the scarring on his arms. She’d hoped that it would make him feel less self conscious, but it seemed hardly necessary, since he barely appeared conscious at all, Ron thought. Oh, God, he was dreading this. Even Hermione had started to look like she wanted to back out now at the state Harry was in.

 _Hurry up and get here so we can get this over with_ , he thought nervously, feeling like he might go insane before his family arrived. He even contemplated asking them to leave as soon as they arrived, but he knew his mother would be devastated, and she and Ginny would probably insist on at least seeing Harry before they would agree to go. There was just no help for it, he realized. It was too late to turn back.

 _Happy birthday to me_ , he thought miserably.

When his family suddenly materialized, they were greeted with the now-familiar specter of Dumbledore’s dusty ghost. Ginny and the twins hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, and Ginny screamed before her father spoke the words to make him vanish while Ron stood watching them grimly, blocking the stairs.

“Hi,” he greeted them solemnly when they’d finally noticed him. “Right, here’s how this is going to go,” he started without preamble.  “Before you step foot on these stairs, we’re setting down some ground rules when it comes to Harry. First,” he held up a finger, “you don’t grab him, you don’t run at him, you don’t startle him in any way. Nobody’s talking about Death Eaters, Snape, or You Know Who. No asking where we’ve been or what we’ve been up to. No ogling him, no moaning about how thin and frail he is or anything like that to draw attention to him or make him uncomfortable. You break any of those rules and I’ll toss you back out on your ear before you even know what’s happened. I don’t care who you are. Understand?” he asked sternly. “If Harry even looks like he’s under stress, you’re gone, and if he falls asleep, the party’s over. Got it?” He finally finished to stunned silence. All of them just stood there with their mouths open at his greeting.

“Well,” George finally said, finding his voice. “It’s really great to see you, too, little brother.”

“Yeah. What a gracious welcome,” Fred agreed. “Makes me sorry you’ve been away so long.”

“Funny,” Ron replied without a trace of amusement. “You two can take the piss out of me all night if you want. Just lay off Harry.”

“No one’s going to heckle anyone, Ron,” his father said reassuringly.

“Ron, you’re starting to scare me,” Ginny finally said tentatively. “He is still Harry, isn’t he?”

He stared at her a minute, taking in the worry lines that had formed around her eyes and mouth.  “Yeah, Gin, he’s still Harry,” he replied. “But he’s been through a lot and he’s still recovering. I’m sorry I was so harsh, but it’s as much for your protection as his. Things can be pretty… unpredictable right now with him.” 

He then turned, leading them up the stairs into the drawing room, feeling like he was walking to his doom. Everyone was totally silent behind him. Even Fred and George seemed to be taking him seriously.

“They’re here,” he announced as he walked through the doorway. Trying to sound nonchalant, Ron attempted to look relaxed. 

Harry was in his usual place on the far end of the couch, but Hermione was sitting right beside him with her hand on his knee to keep him calm. It was obvious to Ron that she was trying to use herself as a buffer between everyone else and Harry, hoping to keep them at a distance. 

His mother followed him into the room, greeting Harry and Hermione warmly as if everything were completely normal, as if there wasn’t so much tension in the room that they could all hardly breathe. His dad did the same, but the twins and Ginny hovered around the door. They all looked around nervously for a minute, still mindful of Ron’s warnings, perhaps, but then Ginny finally gathered her courage and brushed past them into the room.

Harry had hardly acknowledged Ron’s parents’ entrance. His eyes had locked on Ginny as soon as she rounded the doorway. The dullness had finally left his eyes. Now he looked utterly terrified and totally enthralled at the same time when she smiled at him. Ron watched him squeeze the ball in his fist and grip his journal to stop the slight tremor starting up in his hands.

“Hey, Harry,” Ginny called casually and then looked immediately to Hermione as she walked towards them, appearing utterly relaxed. “Hey, Hermione.” She leaned down to hug Hermione and then Harry, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you guys. I’ve missed you terribly. Even Ron,” she said jokingly, glancing at him as if judging his reaction to her entrance. Then she moved to take a chair closest to Harry, one of several Hermione had conjured for the occasion.  

Hermione’s grip had tightened on Harry’s knee when Ginny approached, and Ron clutched the wand he’d held in his hand since they’d arrived, but Harry merely looked like he’d been hit with a powerful Confundus charm when Ginny sat down. The potion was making his movements sluggish. His mouth was slightly open as his eyes slowly followed her progress.

“Hello, Harry, Hermione,” George said then, nodding at them. “Ron’s already given us a real warm welcome downstairs. It was almost as friendly as that apparition you have in the foyer.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Fred agreed. “But we’re glad we came anyway. It’s still better than being at Aunt Muriel’s. Every time she sees us, she looks like someone just set off a dung bomb in the room.”

“Of course, it’s probably because there’s about fifty owls coming and going from her place every day, now our shop’s closed down,” George explained.

“So business is still good then?” Hermione asked, relaxing a bit when Harry hadn’t gone off like a bomb when they arrived.

“Oh, yeah,” said George. “Things are brilliant.”

“Well,” his mother interrupted brightly, trying to steer the conversation away from work, which had set Harry off once before. “I thought we’d just have a little dinner party in here with finger foods mostly, nothing formal, so we can all spend some time together. Give us some time to catch up.”

Ron started to relax, too, once everyone’s nerves had settled a bit. His mum set up a buffet with Dobby’s help, which she loaded down with all his favorite foods. There was a tense moment when Harry got to his feet to make himself a plate like everyone else. They all watched him, but tried not to, as he swayed a bit before steadying himself. Ginny rose with him before Hermione could, sliding her hand around his upper arm to help support him.

“Oh, I’m starving, too,” she told him to cover up the help she was giving him, as if it weren’t her motivation. “We better hurry or Ron will have eaten all the good stuff,” she teased lightly, leaning into Harry conspiratorially.

“Thanks, Ginny,” Harry mumbled, barely above a whisper, though the whole room was listening. His words sounded slurred from the effects of the potion, and he went a bit red when he spoke them, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh, you know, I’m just looking out for all of us. I remember how much Ron likes to eat,” she said with a laugh, pretending to misunderstand his thanks and ignore his embarrassment.

Ron felt like a real arse. That fucking potion was a bad idea. It was way too strong for Harry. It shouldn’t make him a slobbering mess like it had. Maybe Hermione had given him too much, but it was making him seem worse than he was. This party was wiping away all that he’d gained back for himself over the last couple of weeks. He’d yelled his voice away again earlier, and now he looked drunk and stupid on top of that. 

They’d stripped Harry of his dignity, and he was probably never going to speak to either of them again after tonight. Ron wouldn’t blame him one bit if he didn’t. Harry would probably be beating the hell out of both of them right now if he could throw off its effects. Ron couldn’t help but glare at Hermione then, though he felt bad about that, too, when he caught her eye. She looked miserable for being the cause of it.

Slowly, Harry and Ginny headed for the table together, and everyone else seemed to suddenly realize they were all still supposed to be playing along, too, and hurried to catch up. When they’d loaded their plates, Ginny steered Harry back to the couch and took Hermione’s place next to him on it. Ron watched Hermione’s reaction with a touch of amusement. She looked put out at having Harry pried away from her as she watched them with a bit of jealousy from her new position on the chair Ginny had previously been occupying. Harry only had eyes for Ginny, though. The rest of them could have been dancing around the room totally starkers and Ron didn’t think Harry would have noticed. 

He marveled at how easily Ginny moved around Harry from the minute she walked in the room. She’d really set the tone for the others. Even though they’d all snuck worried glances at him and watched him out of the corners of their eyes, Ginny seemed determined to be as normal as possible around him, though Harry had yet to speak another word to anyone, including her. 

When they’d all settled down to eat, Ron finally let himself relax and enjoy himself a bit.  It was his birthday party, after all, and Fred and George had brought butterbeer, which he hadn’t had in a very long time. He would’ve preferred firewiskey right now to settle his nerves, but he was excited just the same. In another act of unexpected thoughtfulness, George pulled the cap on every bottle as he passed them out so Harry wouldn’t have to struggle with it or have someone else do it for him. 

“This is just butterbeer, right?” Ron asked before taking a sip.

“Of course,” Fred said with a laugh.

“You first then,” he replied, and waited until both the twins took a swig of their bottles, grinning madly at him. Of course, that still wasn’t an indication that the rest of theirs weren’t spiked with something, but Ron decided to risk it. 

Things started to smooth out after that. His mum had made him a chocolate birthday cake, and the twins had given him a brand new chess set where all the pieces were different magical creatures made out of crystal. The pawns were all Goblins, the knights were Centaurs, and the rooks were Trolls. It was quite beautiful and must have been very expensive. Ron was really eager to play. It had been so long since he’d had a game.

Ginny picked up the white queen and studied it.  It was a Veela, and she smirked as she turned it in her hand, showing it to Harry. “This reminds me of a conversation we had on your birthday, Harry, before you left,” she said to him. “You haven’t met any of these in your travels, have you?” she teased, and to Ron’s utter astonishment, Harry’s lips quirked up in an unmistakable grin for just a moment before he shook his head and looked away from her shyly.

“You wanna play, Ginny?” Ron asked her eagerly, and she agreed. 

He quickly set it up on the coffee table and dragged a chair up to sit across from her. It was a lot more interesting than normal because each magical creature had a different fighting style than any of the regular chess sets he’d played with before. The goblins were particularly vicious, stabbing and hacking each other. The Centaurs shot with their bows and the Trolls swung their clubs. 

It was the most exciting game he’d ever played, and Ginny was giving him a run for his money, too.  She always was pretty competitive. Everyone in the room had taken sides. All awkwardness around Harry was forgotten, the excitement of the game letting him blend into the background. It allowed Harry to watch quietly while the others cheered, and he and Ginny bantered back and forth. 

Fred and George whooped when her beautiful Veela queen’s features changed, turning birdlike when she attacked and hurled flames at his Centaur. Even Hermione, who thought the wizard version of the game was barbaric, couldn’t help but root for his black pieces. After a long battle he had Ginny in check again for the third time before she was finally out of moves and accepted defeat. 

“That was an excellent game, Ron,” his father praised him, clapping his hands together and getting to his feet, stretching his back after sitting for so long. Ron also got up and replaced the pieces in their velvet-lined box and then carried it to the buffet table as Dobby brought in more tea.

“Thanks, Fred, George, it’s really...” he began, but broke off when a ball of light fell through the ceiling into the middle of the room. Before he could comprehend what it was or react at all, it had expanded and unfolded into a brilliant white doe. 

Everyone gasped in surprise at its sudden appearance while it turned its head to face Harry. Then it spoke in a voice that was unmistakably Snape’s.

“We need to meet. Friday at noon, at the place where she led you.”

Ron stood frozen as the doe faded, still seeing her ghostly image every time he blinked his eyes from her glaring brilliance. Feeling suddenly terrified as he watched Harry’s stunned face turn to horror, Ron saw his gaping jaw snap closed and lock. That moved him to action. His feet came unstuck, his limbs finally moving. 

“Out!” he bellowed, watching in terror as Harry started to shake all over. “I want everybody out of here now!”

Ron felt like he was moving in slow motion. He’d left his wand on the coffee table, letting his guard down, foolishly believing that everything was under control.

“Shit, Hermione!” he warned, but she was already coming out of her chair, moving towards Harry. She drew her wand while Ron started yanking stunned family members bodily from their chairs and shoving them towards the door.

Fuck!  Fuck!  He knew this was going to blow up in their faces.

~ . ~


	18. Confrontations

“That was a lot of fun.”

Ginny laid her hand over Harry’s and squeezed his fingers lightly, smiling at him as Ron carried the ornately carved wooden box with the chess pieces over to the buffet table with the other gifts he’d received. She’d played a good game, and it was a beautiful set the twins had gotten him. Harry had never seen one like it before. 

Still not trusting his voice to speak, though the potion’s effects were finally starting to wear off, Harry nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel anywhere near as foggy and dimwitted as he had when they’d arrived, and the numbness in his limbs had subsided, too. It wasn’t completely out of his system, however, he knew, because he wasn’t nearly as pissed off as he should be at both Ron and Hermione for making him take it. In his mind he knew he was angry, but his body still wouldn’t react to it. 

It was totally bizarre to be having furious, murderous thoughts, yet be completely calm at the same time. It disoriented him to have his heart rate chemically altered so that it beat slow and steady while he raged. Flooded with endorphins, he felt almost no pain, no stress, when in reality, he was screaming. It was like being under the Imperius Curse, but being entirely aware of his actions the whole time. The potion had trapped him in his own traitorous body while it pretended one thing, and he knew another. It was complete and utter hell.

He hadn’t been able to feel his hands or his face for a long time after Hermione had dosed him. It was as if his nerve endings had shrunk and couldn’t reach to the ends of his extremities.  That horrible numbness had threatened to swallow him whole. It had left him feeling like it was devouring him while he sat there terrified. Now that it was finally wearing off, his fingers and toes tingled like they’d fallen asleep. He felt like electric currents were running to his fingertips and up his arm when Ginny squeezed his hand.  

“Thanks, Fred, George, it’s really...” Ron started, but then broke off.

Harry looked up when he’d stopped speaking, watching the light growing in the room. The potion had slowed his comprehension, impaired his reasoning so that he thought for a minute that they were bringing another birthday cake loaded with candles into the room. But what he saw was even more bewildering. 

A ball of pure white light had fallen right through the ceiling into the middle of the room.  The light hovered a few inches above the ground for a moment. Then it grew, expanding out in all directions, and even in his drugged state, Harry knew what it would become. He’d seen her before, erupting just as unexpectedly out of the end of Snape’s wand in the dungeon. It was the doe. The doe that was his mother’s patronus, cast by the bastard who’d sent Voldemort to kill her. The sight of the beautiful creature felt like a reminder that Snape had stolen her from him, as if he were taunting Harry with the knowledge.

Everyone gasped at its sudden appearance, Ginny squeezing his hand again in surprise as it turned its head to stare at him. Then it spoke, and that hated voice filled the room and flooded his mind.

“We need to meet. Friday at noon, at the place where she led you.”

Staring at Harry a moment longer, her huge beautiful eyes on him, the doe blinked once, and then vanished. Harry sat stunned, feeling like time had stopped while he processed the shock of her appearance and her message to him. Then, not even the potion could stop the roaring in his ears and the shaking of his limbs as the world started up again in slow motion. It couldn’t hold the buildup of fury and fear and hatred that was surging in him. It couldn’t stop the blackness that had been building in his veins all evening, which he couldn’t expel because of the potion’s debilitating effect. It couldn’t hold him any longer because it was wearing off now, and he was revving up. It sounded like a massive engine lying dormant all this time had come to life inside him, roaring in his ears, making his whole body vibrate with its power. 

Ron watched him from across the room in mounting horror, and then he started to move, still in that weird slow way. As if the room was losing gravity, or it had filled suddenly with water and they were all in some giant aquarium, their bodies started to float off the ground. Ron’s mouth opened in a yell, but Harry couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. There was terror in his eyes as he came for Harry. Then Hermione moved, too. Harry could see her rising slowly out of her chair as if weightless, gripping her wand. Her arm floated up to aim at him while Ron began pulling people out of their chairs and flinging them towards the door. Yelling at Hermione, words that Harry couldn’t understand, warnings that wouldn’t filter into his confused mind, Ron advanced on Harry where he sat. 

Ginny gripped his arm, frightened at the sudden chaos that had erupted around them all, and he remembered where he was, suddenly, and who was there with him. Blinking once, still watching the bizarre slow dance, the water ballet that was happening around him, Harry felt fear now flooding through him. He was about to be stunned by Hermione or flying tackled by Ron, though he hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch. They were going to curse him, hold him in a body bind and force more potions on him. Harry knew it. They were planning to physically subdue him in front of Ginny and her family, as if he was some wild animal that had been set loose on them. But he hadn’t done anything! He hadn’t hurt anybody!

“NO!” he shouted in outrage. 

Jumping to his feet, Harry threw his hands up to protect himself, knocking everyone around him backwards with a blast that had burst from him with a sound like a gong. It sent them all staggering as if he’d hit them with a powerful impediment jinx. Empty chairs toppled and half-finished bottles of butterbeer were knocked over from the wave of energy that had exploded from him. 

“Stop it!” he bellowed as loud as his damaged voice would allow. 

Then Dobby was in front of him. Facing off against Harry’s attackers in a fighting stance, his feet were apart and his knees were bent. He held his arms up like Harry’s, ready to help defend him against Ron, against Hermione.  

“You must not harm Harry Potter!” he squeaked, his bat-like ears pressed flat to his head. Like an angry cat, he glared around at them all. 

It might have looked funny, the little elf coming to his defense, but Harry knew how powerfully magical Dobby actually was, and that he was deadly serious, too. He’d defied his own master, attacking to protect Harry once before, and he would again without a doubt.

Harry glared at Ron and Hermione on the floor in front of him while the whole room trembled like the earth was bucking beneath it. Windowpanes rattled and abandoned plates and silverware danced on the tabletops as his fury at their betrayal manifested itself in the air around him when he couldn’t generate it in his own body.

“Harry… please,” Hermione pleaded, back up on her knees from where she’d fallen, her arms up now, too, mirroring his, rising in surrender. “Just calm down.”

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, though the words were low and raspy. “I haven’t done anything. I didn’t hurt anyone.” His voice cracked, threatening to break completely again. 

As he looked around at the shocked and frightened faces staring at him, the trembling of the room finally died. He felt the shame of what they were witnessing starting to bloom in him, the realization that he was the one causing it.

“You did this… you made this happen!” he accused, turning back to Ron and Hermione, feeling mortified now as he pointed a shaking finger at the pair, at the two people who were supposed to be his friends. 

Harry wanted to scream at them for the humiliation they’d caused him tonight in front of Ginny, in front of the twins, in front of the people he thought of as his surrogate parents. He wanted to punch them both in the mouth and rage at them, but he was still being restrained by that fucking potion Hermione had given him.

“Harry, I’m sorry,” Hermione started again.

“I did everything you wanted. I did everything you wanted me to do,” he interrupted, his voice quavering now, which only made him more angry, more embarrassed. “I was a good little boy for you tonight, just like you wanted.”

Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, rolling down her cheeks as she stared up at him, looking distraught.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I overreacted,” Ron apologized then. “They’re my family, mate… please understand, I was afraid. I’m just trying to protect them.”

“I know who they are!” Harry shot back. “And I love them, too. I’d never hurt them.” He was heartbroken, utterly devastated that Ron would think he would cause them any harm. “I’m sorry you don’t trust me with them. That you felt like they couldn’t be safe around me anymore unless I was stoned out of my mind… I’m sorry that you’re afraid of me.” His last words were spoken softly, his voice growing cold as he heard Mrs. Weasley gasp from somewhere behind him.

“No, Harry, it’s not like that, but you’re not in control of yourself. Not all the time. Not right now,” Ron tried to explain, waving his arms around to take in the state of the room and its terrified occupants. “Hermione and I were only trying to keep you calm. We knew tonight would be hard on you. But when that doe…” Ron broke off, frightened of mentioning it in his volatile state. “We’re only ever trying to help. I swear it.”

“I’m not crazy!” Harry spat. “I’m not out of my mind. I know you don’t believe that. You think I’m some kind of monster.”

They both looked horrified at his words, shaking their heads in denial. 

“I don’t think that, Harry,” Ron said slowly into the utter silence that had fallen in the room, still shaking his head. “I’m sorry, all right? I know we messed up.”

“I’ve had enough,” Harry announced in disgust. He needed to get out of here before the effects of the potion truly wore off and he completely lost control and embarrassed himself even further. “I think I’ll give managing those stairs a go now. That was my other option, right?” he asked with bitter sarcasm, glaring at Hermione as if daring her to stop him. “Now that your plan hasn’t worked out so well.” 

“Thanks, Dobby,” he said quietly to the elf as he turned, walking slowly, unsteadily, towards the door while Ron scrambled to get to his feet. “I can manage on my own,” he growled, freezing Ron on the spot. “You stay and finish your party. Enjoy your guests without having to worry about me anymore.”

“Harry, don’t do this,” Ron begged as Harry brushed past Fred and Mr. Weasley, who put a hand to his shoulder in the doorway.  “I’m sorry,” he pleaded, but Harry didn’t care anymore.

“Wait. Harry?” Ginny called, coming up behind him.

Harry turned wearily to face her. She stood in front of him in the hallway, looking into his face, her family and Hermione just beyond her in the doorway.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered to her, reaching out to curl a strand of her hair around his fingers while everyone watched him. And she did, he couldn’t stop staring at her all night. Drinking her in, his eyes, his mind, his body starving for the sight of her. “It was so good to see you,” he said more loudly in his hoarse voice, looking around to all of them before returning his eyes to her because he meant it for her most of all. 

His heart aching for her, Harry leaned down and kissed her cheek, feeling his eyes stinging as he inhaled her familiar floral scent, like ambrosia to his senses.

“Don’t come back,” he told her in a flat voice that sounded dead to his own ears. Then he turned to make his way slowly up the stairs. Leaving her open mouthed behind him, stunned by his rejection. Walking away, he left her behind once again, though he wanted so badly to cling to her. God, it hurt.

Harry couldn’t get away from her fast enough. He wanted to flee, but he was struggling on the damn stairs. He hadn’t even managed four steps before Ron was beside him. Sliding a hand around his waist, Ron pulled Harry’s arm around his neck. Harry didn’t even try and fight him. He just wanted to get away. They mounted the steps in total silence, and he could feel every single eye on him.

“Go back downstairs, Ron,” Harry told him when they’d crossed the threshold of Sirius’ room. “I can manage from here on my own.” 

Ron just stood there, his face full of regret. “I don’t want—”

“You don’t want what? To leave me alone?” Harry asked bitterly, interrupting Ron. “Well, I don’t need a minder. I’m not planning to off myself or anything, you prick. Just leave me the hell alone!” 

Ron flinched, but still, he didn’t move.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Harry spat, pointing at the door when Ron opened his mouth again to protest. “And if you send Hermione up here… I swear to God, she’d better be armed!”

Ron continued to stare at him, looking like a whipped dog with his sorrowful eyes, before finally nodding his head and turning for the door. “I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly, pausing at the door a moment before finally leaving Harry standing alone in the middle of the room. 

Harry didn’t know what to do now. He thought about going into the bathroom and locking the door so he could scream his voice away again in private, but he was afraid of that room. No matter what he’d just told Ron, if he found himself in there alone and this upset, he didn’t really know what he’d do. Plus, they’d probably tear the whole house down around him trying to get to him if he did. He’d just taken a bath yesterday morning on his own and had practically caused a panic.

Dropping heavily into the chair, he felt completely drained. His body and mind were in utter chaos, warring with each other, fighting against what remained of the potion. He wished he could cry his eyes out now that he was alone, but he wasn’t able. Not yet. The potion was still preventing the tears from forming, for which he was actually grateful. It was the only thing he hadn’t done tonight in front of Ron’s whole family. Mercifully, that tiny piece of his dignity was still intact. He supposed he ought to write a thank-you letter to Hermione for that. Without the potion, he might have simply burst into tears the moment they walked in the room. 

Christ! Maybe he was insane, he thought, as his insides burned with the humiliation and shame at the spectacle he’d made of himself tonight. He needed his journal, he needed the ball, but he’d left them both downstairs. Harry felt naked without them now.

It was funny. He had yet to hold a wand since their capture, but instead of longing for it, for the protection that stick of wood could provide, he was yearning for a stupid rubber ball as if it could save him from the world or from himself.

He was alone barely ten minutes before Hermione and Ron came in together, heads down, looking contrite. Having cleaned up the mess, said their goodbyes to his family and ushered them out, he presumed, making his apologies to them, no doubt. Harry didn’t move from the chair or even look at them. Pretending he hadn’t heard them, pretending he’d been turned to stone, he sat completely immobile in the chair.

“Harry…” Ron started to apologize again or explain.

Harry jumped up suddenly, as if his name on Ron’s lips was a trigger, as if the sound of Ron’s voice was the bell signaling the start of the fight. Moving more quickly than any of them thought him able, he closed the distance between them, shoving a stunned Ron hard into the doorframe behind him. 

“Fuck you!” he shouted, as all the pent-up anger was finally able to break through to his tingling limbs. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear anything they had to say!

The air was forced out of Ron’s lungs at the impact. Hermione gave a little shriek of surprise, shrinking back at the sudden violence that had erupted out of him, but he wasn’t finished.  Swinging his good arm, he felt his knuckles connect solidly with Ron’s jaw, throwing his head back to smack against the wall with a satisfying thud. Harry staggered slightly from the momentum of his punch, sending him careening off balance. His hand hurt, but he knew he hadn’t really hit Ron all that hard. He simply wasn’t able. He didn’t have the strength, and that made him even more angry.

“I’m sorry,” Ron tried again.

Harry screamed then. He was so full of fury at him, at them both that he had no more words to express it. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. Ron raised his arms in surrender, and Harry swung again, catching him in his now-unprotected side. 

“Uuuhhnn,” Ron grunted as the air was expelled from his lungs again, and he doubled up. 

Harry stumbled into him, breathing hard, and Ron wrapped his arms around him then.  Capturing him and trying to pin his arms down at his sides, Ron tried to physically subdue him while he screamed and fought to free himself. He was yelling things, but he didn’t even know what they were. Struggling in Ron’s much stronger grip, he landed more punches to Ron’s stomach and ribs as he raged against him.

“I’m sorry,” Ron panted. “Harry, I’m sorry… please stop.”

“Fight back!” Harry growled, still struggling against him. Gripping Ron’s waist, he drove him back into the wall again with his shoulder.

“No,” Ron grunted, breathing hard. “Harry… I can’t… ouch, damn it, stop it!” he yelled, groaning as Harry caught him in the diaphragm, driving upwards into his ribcage, though he couldn’t really get any momentum behind his swings now. “I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry… just stop now… just stop it.”

Harry’s energy was failing him. He was weakening in Ron’s grip. His head rested on Ron’s shoulder now while Ron continued to embrace him. 

“Why did you do that… Why did you do that to me?” he cried. The tears were finally coming as he landed another blow to Ron’s abdomen, making Ron grunt in pain. But Ron just continued to say he was sorry over and over again, crooning to Harry until the fight had gone completely out of him, until he hung limp in Ron’s arms, completely exhausted.

“I didn’t do anything,” he mumbled into Ron’s chest, his tears dampening Ron’s shirt. “I didn’t deserve that.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Shut up!” he said angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Ron apologized again, relaxing his grip on Harry to stroke his hair. “I’m sorry, mate, truly.”

“I hate you. I hate both of you for this,” Harry told them, turning his head on Ron’s shoulder to face Hermione, still gripping Ron’s waist to help hold himself up. Harry glared at her, watching the tears rolling down her cheeks, feeling like she had no right to be upset with him.

“I know. We were stupid. It won’t happen again,” Ron assured him, still stroking him, soothing him. “I promise.”

“If I hit her, would you hit me back?” Harry asked.

Hermione let out a sob then.

“Yeah, I would,” Ron answered warningly, tightening his grip on Harry again. 

Harry swung his left arm out at her weakly, though she wasn’t anywhere near enough for him to actually hit her. She burst into tears.

“Stop it!” Ron barked, shaking him a bit, causing them both to stumble and Ron to curse under his breath. 

But Harry wasn’t sorry. He wanted to make her cry. He wanted Ron to hit him back, to pummel him until his nose bled, until his eyes swelled shut, and it hurt to breathe. He wanted to feel it, to be dragged under by it. But Ron didn’t, he just held him while Harry’s energy and resistance drained out of him.

“I wish I could have hit you harder,” he told Ron then, pressed against his chest, letting Ron take most of his weight now. “More times,” he mumbled. “I’m still mad.”

“I know. It hurt enough, though,” Ron replied. “You made your point.”

“Harry, please,” Hermione cried. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I never meant…”

“I’m never taking it again,” he interrupted her apology, speaking quietly, too drained to muster the energy to continue the fight with her. “I’m never letting you give me that again.”

“No,” she agreed, shaking her head, tears still pouring down her face.  “Never again, Harry. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Harry didn’t remember going to bed that night, how he’d gotten there, or if he’d simply fallen asleep standing up in Ron’s arms, but he woke up in the morning pressed against Hermione’s back. He was spooned against her, his body curled around hers with his arm draped over her stomach. Stretching, he pressed his hips into her, rubbing his morning erection against her, sighing at the feeling of her warm body against his, at the friction he was creating between them. He moaned as he rocked into her again, more firmly, burrowing into the cleft of her arse.  God, it felt good, he thought sleepily, still too drowsy to comprehend what he was doing and who he was doing it with. 

When his mind finally caught up, he jerked himself backwards in alarm, almost falling off the bed in his haste to get away from her. His heart hammering, Harry stared down at her and then over at Ron, who was facing him, though still asleep, apparently. His mouth was open, his chin a bit swollen and bruised. 

 _Jesus Christ!_ he thought. Breathing hard, he put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. Then he lay back down on his back as far away from Hermione as he could and still be on the bed, and tried willing his body to relax. She rolled over then, to face him. 

 _Shit!_   He thought she was still asleep, too. Harry could feel his face going red. What the hell was he supposed to say, he wondered, trying not to look at her, feeling utterly mortified. 

“Morning,” she whispered.

“Uh… morning,” he mumbled back, hoping she was just going to pretend that it hadn’t happened, though his body was still showing entirely too much interest in her.  Holy hell!  This was completely mad. He was both embarrassed and yet still totally aroused at the same time. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said quietly then. “About everything, Harry.”

That took care of that problem, he thought as he looked at her now. Her apology felt like she’d just dumped a bucket of cold water over him. The memories from the previous day washed over him, dousing his desire in an instant as the remembered humiliation, fear, and anger came back to him.

“Yeah, uh, I think I need the loo.” Turning away from her quickly, he sat up. 

What the fuck?  He really didn’t remember getting to bed last night at all. It was a total blank. He’d expected to find himself in the clothes he’d been wearing yesterday if he’d passed out last night, but he was stripped to his boxers again. He was really hoping he’d undressed himself, but he had a feeling he hadn’t. The idea of them getting him in the bed and removing his clothes made him feel weird and a little embarrassed again.

Maybe Hermione clocked him on the back of the head last night while Ron held him pinned to his chest, Harry thought hopefully. He remembered taking a swing at her, although in his defense, he’d never intended to truly hit her. But maybe Ron knocked him out for it anyway, or she did, in retaliation. Maybe he’d gone completely mental, or more mental than he already was, or something, and they had to stun him. Or maybe, he simply passed out on Ron’s shoulder when he couldn’t fight anymore. 

Yup, that’d be it. That was more reasonable, he decided. He didn’t have a splitting headache, and he didn’t think he had another lump on his head either. Checking, he ran a hand over the back of his head to make sure and then down his face. Nope, no lumps, no split lip or sore cheek.  He could see out of both his eyes, and his teeth all seemed to be in place, too.  He must have passed out. 

 _Real manly_ , he thought derisively. Then he slid off the bed, pausing a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet before walking to the bathroom.

Once he’d emptied his bladder, Harry still wasn’t ready to go back out into the bedroom and face either of them. He didn’t know if he was still too mad at them, or if he was still too embarrassed. He hadn’t brought Hermione’s bag in with him though, so he had no change of clothes or anything, but he decided to take a shower anyway. He really wasn’t a huge fan of baths, and he felt strong enough today to be able to stand long enough to wash himself under the spray. Besides, his legs felt much better after they’d gotten used to regular exercise again and the repeated applications of Madame Pomfrey’s cream.

Checking the temperature of the water, he got it as hot as he could stand and stepped under the spray. It felt wonderful. The water drummed against his back, his shoulders, and his chest, waking him all the way up and massaging his body. He hung his head and let it pound on the back of his neck. Letting the water drip off the end of his nose and chin, Harry thought about yesterday, about Snape, about what he was going to do about that, and then about Hermione again.

Why hadn’t she moved away from him when he was rutting against her? Had she only just woken up when he’d rolled away from her? Had she still been asleep when he was trying to hump her into the mattress? God, he hoped so. 

Then a new thought occurred to him. Were she and Ron sleeping together? Well, they were all sleeping together, which was strange in its own right, but were the two of them having sex, he wondered. They were wearing very little clothing yesterday morning and seemed completely comfortable in front of each other in them. Then he remembered them coming out of the bathroom together the other morning, and he realized that they were then. They must be. 

The idea was just bizarre. He didn’t know how he felt about it, frankly. They deserved to be happy, and they were meant to be together, but still. It made him feel hollow inside to know that they were finally together, finally happy, especially after the disaster of seeing Ginny yesterday. Then he had to get away from those images, and shut down those feelings because it hurt too much to see her or think about her. He couldn’t be with her. It wasn’t possible anymore for them. Not for him. 

He ran the soapy rag over his shoulder, over the bite marks on his back, and then down his arm, his good arm, cataloging all the reasons why. As his hand ran over each horrible reminder, he thought of all the things he’d done and all the things they’d done to him. He’d been violated, used, carved up, and beaten. He’d raped and had been raped. They’d mind fucked him and corrupted him until he would never be the same. He’d killed three of them, three Death Eaters, but he wanted to kill more. He intended to, if he got the chance. Hell, more than that. He meant to hunt them down, planning to take his revenge against them as painfully as possible.

He ran the rag across his chest then, over the circular wound at his collar bone where Lucius had twisted the knife and dug in the flesh. A knot of scar tissue had risen into a bump there under the skin. The flesh around it was numb, like that on his left arm, along the jagged scar. The feel of it, the feel of the skin beneath his fingers, cold and dead, totally numb to his touch, brought back the mad thoughts. The deranged theories he’d been fighting against since the first time he’d woken up, worked their way back into his mind. Harry kept telling himself it was nerve damage, it was scar tissue, but he couldn’t make himself believe it.

Sure that Lucius had planted something inside him, Harry was convinced that he’d seeded him with the spawn of something horrible, something that was growing in him, feeding on him. The numbness in his skin was from where it had taken root inside him, from where it had burrowed into his flesh. The idea terrified and repulsed him so much that he could hardly let himself think about what it could be because he was afraid he knew. He’d convinced himself it was a Dementor his body was playing host to, that he was slowly being consumed by it. He was slowly turning into one. He felt the cold clamminess inside him emanating from those spots where Lucius’ knife had torn him open and from those places where he’d torn himself open. His fever, the fever that Madame Pomfrey couldn’t explain, was his body trying to fight it off, trying to rid itself of the parasite that was invading his cells and paralyzing the skin. He knew it.

Unable to keep the irrational thoughts out, he was certain that this was how they’d formed, sure that this was how the foul creatures originated and propagated. They were once men, he reasoned, men who’d lost their ability to feel happiness. They were men that had been filled with the blackness, filled with the poison until they weren’t human anymore, until they were consumed with it. Once there was no longer any feeling left in them, once the blood in their veins ran black with it, then the only happiness they could find was to suck it out of someone else. 

Harry was shaking now, remembering the terror he’d felt yesterday when the potion had numbed him. His face, his hands, and his feet slowly grew cold while he sat utterly defenseless against it. It made him feel like it was consuming him faster, turning him before their eyes, just like the pain potion had made him feel before it.  But it was so much worse because it didn’t knock him out. He just had to sit there, terrified and helpless, waiting for it to happen. The potion made him outwardly calm, unable to scream or fight it off as it crawled up his arms and legs. Sliding down his face onto his neck, it threatened to choke him with his own panic. And he could do nothing to prevent it, only wait to drown in it.

Oh, God! He had to get out of here before the fear overwhelmed him again and made him claw at his own flesh. He needed to escape before he ripped open the wounds to let the blackness bleed out of him, before he infected Ron and Hermione, before he sucked their happiness away from them to fill the hollowness in himself.

Turning the water off with shaking hands, Harry staggered out of the tub, nearly blind with fear now. Feeling like he was hyperventilating, he grabbed the towel and threw it on him at the same time as he reached for the door. It was locked, and he almost lost it completely before his fumbling fingers could get it open. Flinging the door open finally, Harry stumbled into the bedroom, taking deep breaths. He was still soaked to the skin. Water dripped from him everywhere because he hadn’t taken the time to dry himself off in his frenzy to escape the bathroom. It dripped from his hair and ran down his back and chest, soaking into the towel at his waist. It slid down his legs and dampened the carpet around his feet. The coolness of the air, the sudden change from the moist heat of the bathroom sent goose bumps erupting over his skin as he stood there, breathing hard while trying to fight the panic still flooding through him.

“Harry?” Hermione came up to kneel on the bed, her eyes going wide with concern at his abrupt entrance. “Harry, you’re white as a sheet. Are you okay?” she asked as Ron sat up then, too.

Harry shook his head. His lips were trembling. He felt anything but okay, but he was too terrified to speak.

“What the hell happened?” Ron asked, bewildered, but Harry still couldn’t answer. Sliding off the bed then, Ron walked towards him, and Harry finally found his voice. Taking a step backwards, he moved away from Ron and out of his reach.

“I just… I just got scared is all. It was stupid, but I’m okay now,” he lied, still shaking all over, feeling dizzy. If they knew what he was really thinking they’d have him locked up in St. Mungo’s. 

Harry had a sudden image of himself shut up in the closed ward, spending the rest of his days with Professor Lockhart. Hanging out with Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom, they’d practice joined-up writing and collect gum wrappers. Harry could have Bode’s old bed, and he and Lockhart could trade signed photos of themselves or force them on hapless visitors like poor Neville. Maybe Neville would take pity on him and sit and talk with Harry when he came to see his parents at Christmas. The thought made him feel hysterical and desperately sad.  He took another step away from Ron, afraid for him to touch him right now. 

“Hermione, where’s your bag?” he asked. “I need some clothes.” He was trying to cover up his panic attack, trying to get himself under control before it got worse, and they decided to take action against him.

“It’s here on the table,” she told him, pointing to his side of the bed.  “Harry, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, hurrying over to the table and snatching up the bag. Securing the towel around his waist so he could rummage in the bag for his clothes, Harry felt extremely self-conscious. He wished they’d stop watching him. 

Dragging out the first shirt he put his hands on, Harry threw it over his head, not caring if it belonged to him or Ron. He had a hard time getting it on with his shaking hands. It kept sticking to his wet skin, and it was completely damp by the time it was settled against his chest.  He had even more trouble with the boxers. He fought to slide them up his legs and under the towel while Ron and Hermione continued to stare at him, affording him no privacy.

“Do you mind?” he finally asked in irritation at their obvious fascination with his awkward reverse strip tease. Jerking the towel off, he threw it on the bed before searching again in the bag for some jeans.

“Sorry,” Ron said, sheepishly. “But you’re acting really strange, and you seem in rather a hurry. Going somewhere?”

“Uh, no… well, what day is it, actually?”

“It’s Thursday. It’s my birthday tomorrow,” Ron replied.

“Well, happy birthday to you then. Looks like we’ll be going on a little day trip.” Finally fishing out a pair of trousers from the depths of the bag, he sighed in relief before dropping the bag back onto the bed.

“What?” Ron asked incredulously.

“You can’t possibly be thinking to meet him, Harry,” Hermione said in disbelief.

“I’ve got to,” he argued, standing unsteadily on one leg as he threaded the other into the leg hole of his jeans.

“It could be a trap,” she warned. “Harry, I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

“Not like yours yesterday, do you mean?” he asked in irritation.

Hermione looked like he’d slapped her. 

“When have any of us had a good idea?” He yanked the jeans up over his hips finally, staggering slightly as he did up the fly. “What ideas have we had since this whole thing started that turned out to be a good one, huh?” he demanded. “Name one.”

“But we don’t know if Snape is really on our side,” she pointed out somewhat tentatively, afraid of setting him off again like last night, perhaps. Maybe she thought he’d run at her this time instead of Ron if she disagreed with him.

“Snape’s on his own side. I can promise you that, but I’m meeting him tomorrow anyway, even if it’s to end him. You can come or stay.”  He toweled off his hair so that it stuck up wildly in every direction. “It’s your choice.” 

The barb about her choice to attend wasn’t lost on either of them. The reminder of what they’d forced on him yesterday was still clear in their minds. Turns out, he was still really pissed off.

“Harry, I’m all for helping you hunt down every fucking Death Eater that was in that dungeon.  Really,” Ron began, trying to pacify him. “But I don’t think you’re healthy enough to take on Snape just yet, mate.”

“He’s got answers I need, Ron,” Harry replied, finally feeling calm again now that he had a plan, a purpose.  “I’m not missing my chance to get them from him.”  

“Harry—”

“Are you going to try and stop me?” he asked, turning on Ron.

“No… but...”

“I need my wand back,” he announced. Wheeling around, he headed for the stairs, leaving them both to stare after him.

They spent most of the morning trying to talk him out of going, and when they couldn’t, they spent the afternoon helping him work on a plan to get them safely in and out of there. As he rolled the blackthorn wand in his hand, Harry felt more like himself than at any time since their capture. He felt driven, focused on this next task. The wand still felt unfriendly to him, but it was better than nothing. It made him feel more in control of himself and where he was headed than he’d felt in so long, as if his feet were back on the path, facing the right direction again. And Ron and Hermione were beside him, too, following his lead once again. 

Harry had no idea what Snape wanted with him. He knew it was dangerous, but he had no choice. He needed answers, and he was going to get some.

~ . ~


	19. Snape in the Grass

There was just no reasoning with Harry. He woke with a fierce determination to meet Snape, and there wasn’t anything she or Ron could say to change his mind. They were lucky, actually, that he was even speaking to them at all, or that he hadn’t woken up determined to finish the job he’d started before his strength had given out last night. 

Hermione had been so afraid yesterday. Afraid of what the potion had done to him, what she’d done to him, and then his rage. She’d never seen him so angry before, not at her, though she didn’t blame him at all. She’d only tried to help him stay calm, but it had backfired so badly.  She had no idea that potion would affect him like it had, or she certainly would never have given it to him. Once he’d finally broken free of it at last, his anger was so explosive when he’d let loose on them that it terrified her. It had never been directed at Ron and her like that before. 

It hurt. It hurt because she didn’t have any excuse. She shouldn’t have made him take it.  She shouldn’t have forced him to participate in the stupid party Mrs. Weasley had wanted to throw. She should have listened when he said he wasn’t ready to see them. It had been foolish, but she’d honestly thought it would help him to be around them. And then what he’d said to Ginny… oh, God! It broke her heart. He’d just looked so devastated, and it was her fault, entirely her fault.

She wished she had her time turner back at that moment so she could go back and undo all the damage she’d caused. But if she could have done that, she might not be able to stop. She might not be able to stop going farther and farther back, undoing things, re-writing everything that had happened to them since the day they left the Burrow last summer. Maybe even before that.

She’d tried to apologize again this morning, but he’d hardly let her get the words out before he fled to the bathroom. Then he burst back out again after showering, looking terrified. He looked as if Voldemort himself had appeared next to him in the tub and tried to curse him, or something. He’d admitted that he’d been terrified, but of what, he wouldn’t say. Then just like that, he changed. The fear had been replaced with a single-minded focus. Hermione had no idea what had come over him. It was like he’d just suddenly decided his convalescence was over.  Harry was simply finished recovering, and he wouldn’t let Ron or her touch him. He’d actually headed down the stairs on his own before she or Ron could really even get their heads around what was happening. The unexplained fear had given him an apparent burst energy. They were both left open-mouthed as he marched to the door. 

Still, it took him a long while to get down the stairs. He clung to the banister for dear life, but he flat refused Ron’s help, and that was her fault, too. She knew it was because of what she’d said to him the day before. He was taking back the power from her. She’d been a poor steward of it. The power she’d held over his head yesterday, which she’d tried to use to control him, to get him to agree to her plans, it belonged to him again.

When they’d settled in the drawing room, both she and Ron tried to talk him out of his plans, but he wasn’t having any of it. And he’d go alone if they refused to help him. She knew it.  He was just that stubborn. In the end, the best they could do was try to work out some sort of a plan for how to get there and back safely.

The Weasley’s family owl, Errol, came at lunch with a letter for Harry and a howler for Ron. Interrupting their continued pleas for Harry to see reason, the old owl landed, exhausted, on the couch next to Harry. He gave a feeble sort of hoot and took off immediately after Harry had removed his burden, though he looked near collapse from the trip. Apparently, even he wasn’t fool enough to stick around long enough to hear Ginny’s angry voice magnified a hundred times normal, raging at her brother for the fiasco of his party the night before. 

Harry hurriedly dropped the already smoking blood red parchment on the coffee table, and it exploded into flame as they all clamped their hands down over their ears.

“RONALD!  YOU PRAT!” Ginny’s voice screamed shrilly, the sound burrowing between Hermione’s fingers to vibrate painfully against her eardrums. “YOU SAID NOT TO RUN AT HIM. YOU SAID NOT TO STARTLE HIM OR MAKE HIM FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE, AND THEN YOU TURNED AROUND AND DID JUST THAT! THIS IS COMPLETELY YOUR FAULT! I HOPE HARRY KICKED YOUR ARSE AFTER WE LEFT. YOU DESERVED IT. YOU BETTER HAVE A FAT LIP OR A BLACK EYE THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOU OR I’LL GIVE YOU ONE MYSELF! HE’S NEVER GOING TO LET US SEE HIM AGAIN. YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY WITH YOURSELF… oh... and Happy Birthday, git.”

They all sat in complete silence while they waited for the ringing in their ears to subside as the howler disintegrated into ash on the table. Hermione sat nervously, waiting for Harry’s rage to start back up again at the reminder of last night’s fiasco. Afraid that the sound of Ginny’s voice back here in the room where Hermione had humiliated him in front of her would cause him to erupt into violence again, Hermione held her breath. 

Harry’s eyes were wide. He looked stunned for a minute, and then the corners of his lips twitched unexpectedly. He cleared his throat. Both she and Ron stared at him, bracing for the explosion.

“Well, I tried,” Harry said hoarsely. “Give me a few more weeks to get my strength back. I might be able to do the job properly then, and maybe she’ll go easy on you at Easter if you go for a visit,” he finished, suppressing a snort.

“Nice,” Ron replied after a moment of surprised silence at Harry’s words. “You know, Harry, I took it last night because I deserved it and more, but I’m not volunteering for another round,” he told him, massaging his jaw. “You actually landed the one to my chin pretty hard, and my ribs are sore, too. You just kept going after that same spot, over and over again.”

He grinned lopsidedly at Harry, and Harry actually smiled back. Well, it was a smirk really, but still. It was the most bizarre thing she’d ever seen. Hermione would simply never understand boys at all. How they could be grinning while discussing the terrible fight they had last night. It was insanity.

“Still, I think I’d rather have another round with you than face off against Ginny,” Ron said in complete honesty.

Harry nodded in agreement, his face going blank again at hearing her name spoken. The levity of the moment suddenly gone as quickly as it had come. The fact that he’d excluded himself from an Easter visit wasn’t lost on Hermione. ‘If you go to visit,’ he’d said.  He’d also made it clear that they weren’t coming here for Easter either. She watched him run his hand over his unopened letter from Ginny. Harry stroked it. Tracing his finger over his name written in her handwriting, he stared at it in total silence for a long time. Then he slid it into the back pages of his journal with a sigh and set it aside. She sighed then, too. God, she’d made a mess of things, and she didn’t know how to put it right again.

 

* * *

 

Harry worked in the afternoon with the blackthorn wand, practicing simple spells, familiarizing himself with it again after so long, testing the strength of his magic and his voice.  The transformation in him from yesterday to today was astounding. He had a fiercely determined look on his face as he concentrated on levitating the rubber ball Madame Pomfrey had given him. He looked more like the Harry she knew than he had in weeks. It was scary, actually. He was planning this meeting with Snape with a fever she’d never seen, completely and utterly focused. 

He didn’t like the wand, she knew. He had some trouble getting it to perform for him properly. She was glad to see him practicing with it, though. She was sure it was all in his head.  He’d convinced himself that it wasn’t as good as his old wand, which she could sympathize with.  She’d become attached to her wand, too, and understood that Harry longed for his old one. But she’d broken it and couldn’t repair it. If he would just accept this one, however, she knew he’d get better. He just needed to gain more confidence with it was all, and then everything would be fine.

When they retired for the evening, Harry tackled the stairs alone again, refusing any assistance. It had taken him an extremely long time. He was weak and shaking by the time he made it into the bedroom, completely drenched with sweat. Hermione was worried that she’d caused him to push himself too far as she watched him fall into bed. The fight with Ron the night before and his total independence today, his refusal of any help, was putting a strain on his body. It was taking a toll on his muscles. He looked more flushed today than usual, and she feared a setback if he didn’t slow down. 

They all struggled to get to sleep that night, which was highly unusual. Most nights, Harry was so exhausted from the activities of the day, that he was asleep before they could drag the blankets over him. Tonight, they all lay there next to each other in awkward silence. Flat on their backs, they stared up at the ceiling, not touching each other, not moving or fidgeting. Their thoughts were a wild jumble, or hers were, at least, nervous for what tomorrow would bring. Finally they all fell asleep one by one. Ron first, and then Harry, and then it seemed a long while later before she finally followed them.

She came awake much too early, feeling as if she had only just closed her eyes a moment before. It was still totally dark in the room and she couldn’t understand what had woken her. She heard Ron’s soft snores beside her and she blinked into the darkness, listening for a disturbance. Then Harry moaned, shifting restlessly on the bed, mumbling in his sleep.

He was curled up, facing her, though in the utter darkness she could barely make out his outline. She knew immediately he was having a nightmare. He’d had several nights of uninterrupted sleep, and it figured that tonight would be the night his mind chose to torment him. Turning to face him, mirroring his position, she stroked his hair, trying to soothe him while his arms twitched and his legs jerked.

“Nooo,” he moaned, his hands curling into fists. “That’s not true...”

“Shhhh,” she whispered as she continued to stroke him, listening as he ground his teeth together and shook his head, whining softly. “It’s okay, Harry. You’re safe.” Scooting closer to him, she slid her arm under his head to pull him against her. He clutched at her shirt then, going stiff all over for a second before he started to tremble. His body was so warm from the fever, radiating heat as he thrashed against her.

He cried out then and jerked his head off her shoulder, coming awake with a start. She could feel him swiveling his head around, breathing hard, trying to orient himself in the darkness. Hermione lay perfectly still, pressed against his side, afraid to startle him while he tried to get himself under control. And then she could feel rather than see him looking down at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked him quietly. 

He drew in a shuddering breath and held it. Then he squeezed his fists and released them, forcing his limbs to stop shaking as he blew the breath out through his nose.

“It was just a nightmare,” she told him soothingly. “Everything’s okay... you’re okay now.” She pulled him back down next to her, resting his head back on her shoulder. He didn’t resist her. It was the first time since that awful party that he’d let her touch him. “It was just a bad dream,” she cooed softly as Harry allowed himself be pulled back into her, let her stroke his hair while his body relaxed and his breathing returned to normal. She continued to hum quietly to him for a long time, twirling a strand of his hair through her fingers, until he’d gone limp in her arms, until she thought he’d fallen back to sleep.

“Wasn’t a nightmare,” he finally whispered into the darkness. “It was a memory… about him.” He sighed, shifting his weight beside her into a more comfortable position.

“What did you dream, Harry? What did he do?” she asked, her hand stilling in his hair while he lay against her, waiting for his reply, but he didn’t answer. “I’m scared, Harry,” she confessed softly, and he tilted his head up to her. Sliding her arm out from under him, she curled up on her side to face him again. “I’m afraid to leave the house. I’m afraid to be back out there, in the woods,” she told him, her voice quivering, and she was the one shaking now.

The idea of finding herself back in the woods like they had been when they were captured, of what could happen if it was a trap was making her hyperventilate, making her feel frantic. She didn’t think any of them could survive another imprisonment. And she knew they wouldn’t play with them this time if they were captured. Even the Death Eaters weren’t stupid enough not to summon Voldemort immediately if they ever got their hands on Harry again. She was afraid that her mind would seize up as soon as her feet touched the forest floor.  That she would completely lose her head and be totally useless, defenseless.

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked him, trying desperately to talk him out of it one more time.

“More than you know,” he answered quietly. “But I still have to go.”

“What are you afraid of, Harry?” she asked, not really expecting an answer from him.

“Everything,” he breathed. “I’m afraid I’ll fall apart when I see him… and I’m afraid I won’t. I'm afraid I’ll kill him as soon as he appears, out of fear or something, and not get any of the answers I need from him.”

Ron had stopped snoring at some point, and she wondered if he was still sleeping or if he was awake now, too, and listening silently to their confessions.

“What does he want?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Harry, if they catch us…” she whimpered, voicing the thing that terrified her the most. 

“I won’t let them take us again,” he said simply, his voice low and raspy, but cold as a stone.  “I’ll kill us all before I let them take either of you from me.”

She whimpered again, letting out a shaky breath. “Thank you, Harry.”

It was weird, but she actually felt comforted. The idea that Harry would lay waste to all of them should have terrified her, but it didn’t. She understood that if there were no other options, Harry would ensure that they wouldn’t suffer at the Death Eaters’ hands again, and the realization was a relief. It made her insides go calm and her limbs stop trembling.

“I’m so sorry, for what I did yesterday,” she whispered then. Trying again to apologize, begging for his forgiveness. So desperate to make things right with him before this terrible trip tomorrow, before they walked into the unknown. 

He said nothing, but took in a deep breath and stroked her face once, sliding his knuckles along her cheek before letting his hand drop back to the bed.

“I’m afraid of who I’m becoming, Hermione,” he confessed suddenly and shuddered, the words still barely a whisper. “Afraid of what they’ve turned me into.”

The complete darkness seemed to be liberating his tongue, hiding his fear and giving him courage to share more with her than he would if he could see her face, if he had to look in her eyes, she thought.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect you… from myself.”

“Shhhh,” she said as a tear leaked out of the corner of her eye at his words. “Hush now.” Reaching out, she stroked his arm, sliding her fingers down his heated skin before squeezing his hands in hers. 

They lay quietly after that, both of them barely breathing, blinking in the darkness for a long time, though neither of them had fallen asleep. And when it seemed their conversation had come to an end, she closed her eyes again.

“Were you awake this morning, Hermione?” he asked her then. The words were so low, they were barely audible, the whispered sounds barely reaching her ears. Spoken so quietly that she could pretend she hadn’t heard them, pretend that she was already asleep, and so she did. 

She kept her eyes closed and breathed in and out slowly, deeply, letting her body relax completely, letting her hands go limp in his. After another minute, he rolled onto his back with a little sigh, though she couldn’t tell if it was in relief or disappointment.

When they woke up the next morning, they got dressed and had breakfast in near total silence. All of them nervously contemplating their task, terrified of what would happen, of what they were walking into.

At eleven o’clock, she tucked the beaded bag with all their possessions into the waistband of her jeans and stood to meet Ron and Harry in the middle of the drawing room. Ron slid the invisibility cloak over his head while she performed a disillusionment charm on herself. Harry would be the only one of the three visible when they Apparated into the forest clearing where they’d pitched their tent in the Forest of Dean two months before. From there, they would walk to the pool of water where Snape’s patronus had led Harry, where Ron had saved Harry’s life and shattered the locket. They were going early to ensure they weren’t ambushed. Also, it was a fair distance to the pool, and Harry would be slow going. She would stay with Harry, and Ron would scout on ahead.

They stood there a minute, each gripping their wand and each other’s hands. Then she swallowed her fear and turned on the spot. Twisting into nothingness, she pulled them with her into darkness.

They landed in the sheltered clearing exactly where their tent had stood. It was no longer covered in snow as it had been the last time they were here, but otherwise it looked exactly as she remembered it. Harry staggered into her as soon as his feet hit the ground, gasping for breath, before going to one knee in the soft, damp dirt of the forest floor. 

“Harry!” she whispered in alarm. “Are you okay?”

He nodded his head, but began to cough. Clutching his side, still struggling for breath, he held the other hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Hermione stared around, wand up though it shook in her hand as she listened intently for any other sound. Her ears were straining for the sound of running footsteps, of muffled voices, of spells streaking towards them, but she heard only the wind blowing in the still-bare branches of the trees that surrounded the clearing. She heard her own thumping heartbeat and the sound of her labored breathing and Harry’s muffled coughing.

“Ron?” she called softly.

“Yeah… I’m here,” he whispered worriedly, very close to her left ear. “Harry, did you get splinched or something?”

“No,” Harry groaned. “I’m all right.” But he didn’t sound all right at all. 

 _Oh, this was a bad idea_ , she thought as she knelt down to help him.

“Harry, are you sure you’re okay?  We can go back...”

“I’m fine,” he said, gritting his teeth and getting to his feet with her help, swaying a little.  “It just hurt, is all. Feels like being squeezed through a rubber tube, you know, and I couldn’t breathe for a minute… but I’m fine now,” he said reassuringly, releasing her hand.

Still, she wasn’t convinced. Blood could be squirting from his neck, he could’ve left a leg back at Grimmauld Place, and he’d still insist on going ahead with this damn meeting, telling them both he was fine, no matter what the evidence to the contrary. She pressed her lips together firmly to keep from begging him to abandon this plan and go back.

“All right then,” Ron said grimly. “I’m going to go on ahead. See what’s waiting for us over there.”

“Be careful, Ron,” she pleaded desperately, utterly terrified for him to go on his own and leave them.

She listened as Ron walked away from them under the cloak. Listening as his footsteps grew fainter and her anxiety grew stronger while she waited for Harry to steady himself. He took several deep breaths, and then he, too, set off with her following right behind him, close enough to grab him and Apparate away if there was any sign of danger, but not helping him navigate the treacherous terrain. If anyone saw them approach, Disillusioned or not, they would know he wasn’t alone if he was leaning on her for support. She let him lead because she’d never been to the pool where Harry found the sword, where he’d found Ron again. 

They moved incredibly slowly on the uneven ground. She held her wand at the ready and kept her eyes peeled for any sign of movement, any hint of an ambush. Her concern for Harry increased as his breathing became more labored, until he was almost wheezing. His face grew pale and sweat poured off him, though the March air was still quite chilly, and there was a fair amount of wind blowing down the neck of her jumper. 

By the time they finally got to the rendezvous point, Hermione was downright fearful for him. Harry was shaking all over, the long walk draining all his strength. He just wasn’t healthy enough for this trip, she thought. He stumbled to the water’s edge, groaning as he knelt down in the tall reeds that surrounded the pool. Cupping the freezing water in his hands, he splashed his face, trying to catch his breath, while she stood silently next to him, afraid to speak now that they were here. 

She peered around for a sign of Ron or Snape, but Harry looked totally alone beside the pool. Snape or any number of other Death Eaters could be under invisibility cloaks or Disillusioned as well, however, so she didn’t let down her guard.

Harry remained on his knees at the water’s edge, possibly too exhausted to stand and wait for Snape. Or perhaps he was conserving what strength he had left to attack the man when he appeared. Hermione didn’t know, but she stood there next to him as the minutes ticked by, watching the wind blow against the reeds. Watching as it blew a fallen leaf across the surface of the water like a tiny sailboat across a lake, still listening intently for Snape’s approach. Finally, after she thought she would go mad with the silence and the waiting, she heard the small pop of apparition. 

Whipping her head around towards the sound, she squinted at a place across the pool where two massive oak trees grew close together, directly across from where Harry still knelt at the pool’s edge. It was as if he knew that Snape would materialize exactly there. She watched his shoulders tense up and his fingers grip his wand as he continued to stare at the spot. They both watched as Snape stepped out from behind the cover of the trees. 

He walked silently to stand at the opposite end of the pool, his black robes billowing in the breeze. His wand was held at his side as he stared at Harry, who rose slowly from his knees to face him.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Now that Harry was finally face to face with Snape, it appeared he had no words, nor did Snape. They both just stared intently at each other.  It was disturbing. The tension building around them was palpable.

“Potter,” Snape finally spoke. “I didn’t think you would actually come.” When Harry didn’t respond, he continued. “Where are Weasley and Granger? Under your cloak somewhere? I know you didn’t come here alone.” He looked around. “You don’t even look healthy enough to have managed apparition without assistance.”

“Well, they’re dead, of course,” Harry replied, his gravelly voice deadly calm. Only the trembling of his hands gave away the rage or fear he felt. “Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you told me?” he asked, but it was Snape’s turn to remain silent while they continued to stare at each other.

“I was trying to save your miserable hide,” Snape finally responded.

“Yeah? Turns out yours was the one that needed saving.”

“Because you were a fool, as usual,” Snape snarled. “A fool who can’t follow simple instructions. A fool who was trying to get yourself and everyone around you killed!”

“And whose instructions were you following, Snape?” Harry asked, his voice ice cold.  “Why the hell were you even trying to get me out at all? Is your hatred for me so strong that you’d deny your own master the opportunity to kill me? Did you want to save that treat for yourself? Or were you just trying to get me somewhere more private to finish what you started with me?”

“I was following Dumbledore’s orders,” Snape answered simply.

Hermione’s mouth fell open as well as Harry’s.

“You’re joking,” Harry scoffed in total disbelief. “Dumbledore’s dead… you killed him. You may be able to convince a corrupt Ministry of your innocence, but I was there, Snape. I saw it with my own eyes.”  His voice was a growl, full of outrage.

“I do not deny that I killed him, but it was not murder. Dumbledore was already dying.  His death was planned.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind—”

“Dumbledore had been cursed, Potter, as I’m sure he told you in your little meetings together,” Snape interrupted quickly. “I trapped it in his hand, but I could not stop its progress for long. He had very little time left. He ordered me to kill him to spare Draco from the task the Dark Lord had set him.”

“You expect me to believe that Dumbledore asked you to kill him?” Harry asked in contempt. “Did he order you to try to kill George, too? Did he tell you to sexually assault me in the dungeons? Did you two plan that as well?” Harry snorted derisively, and Hermione sucked in a sharp breath behind him, though Snape seemed not to have noticed. His focus was totally on Harry.

“He sent me to try and rescue you, yes. What happened there was… regrettable.” Snape spoke the words as if they were distasteful. “It was… an unfortunate mistake,” he said through gritted teeth.

Harry laughed incredulously. “It was a mistake, all right,” he growled. “Every potion tastes like you in my mouth now, and I can’t get it out. You can call it unfortunate or regrettable, but you’re not sorry, are you? You bastard!  In the end, you enjoyed it. You got off—”

“I was trying to get you out of there without destroying my cover,” Snape spat in growing irritation, interrupting Harry. “You were near death, Potter. We had an audience. I did the least amount of damage possible under the circumstances.”

“The least…” Harry spluttered, outraged. “You fucking… you knew exactly what you were doing! You meant to humiliate me. I was holding my own against you. In fact, I may have been kicking your arse both mentally and physically. I wasn’t giving you the information you were trying to pry out of my mind for Tom, and I distinctly remember you flat on your back at one point. I put you there!” Harry yelled, jabbing his own chest with his finger.

“You flatter yourself, Potter. You were delirious with fever. Your thoughts were nothing but insane ramblings. Not unlike they are now. And as for your physical prowess,” he sneered. “Another round with any of the Death Eaters would have ended you. I did what I had to do. I had no choice. Your idiocy nearly got us both killed. Incidentally, you look as if you could use a few more potions now, Potter. You still look near death,” Snape observed.

Hermione had to agree with his assessment. Harry appeared to be weakening the longer he was on his feet. He was swaying already, and it looked as if a strong breeze would blow him over, sending him face first into the water. Her fear for him was increasing by the minute. This meeting couldn’t end soon enough as far as she was concerned. She wanted to get Harry home to Grimmauld Place as quickly as possible.

“Well, I did have another round with your mates, didn’t I?” Harry bit back. “Once you were gone? I was left with the whole lot of them, and they were a little bit pissed with me for saving your skin, I can tell you.”

“You were a fool to stay. It was suicide.”

“Maybe, but I’m not like you, Snape. I can’t just leave my friends behind to die.”

“How did you escape?” Snape asked, as if he couldn’t stop himself. He appeared genuinely interested to know how Harry accomplished it.

Harry laughed again, yet there was no humor in it. “Well… Lucius ran off and told all the other Death Eaters what a good little cocksucker I was after you sent him and Avery out, you see,” he began in a mocking tone.

Hermione’s mouth fell open again in shock.  

“So they all came down to see for themselves, and, of course, interrupted your clever little escape plan,” Harry sneered. “Anyway,” he continued, speaking quickly, “once you were gone, they agreed to let me go if I sucked them all off. So they lined up against the wall in the cellar corridor and made me blow them one by one. My lips wouldn’t work for a week, and my jaw is still sore, but what the hell. Thanks for teaching me how, Snape.  It really saved my arse in there. A real useful skill to have in emergencies,” he finished.

They both scowled at each other furiously for several minutes while Hermione continued to reel at his words.

“Why did you give me the sword?” Harry asked abruptly.

“Dumbledore insisted you have it,” Snape replied coolly. “To what use did you put it?” he asked in return, as if this were some kind of duel of words, and maybe it was. “What did Dumbledore think you could possibly need it for, on the run as you were? Hiding out in the middle of a forest,” he said, waving his hand around to take in their surroundings.

“Were you in love with her?” Harry asked volleying back, the question completely unexpected. “Is that why you hate me so much?” 

Snape had gone silent, stunned maybe by the question, or by the rapid changes of direction in the topic of conversation. Harry seemed to be skipping around, hurling random questions at Snape as if trying to trip him up, following a script in his mind that Hermione couldn’t understand. And he was panting again, tiring, bracing his legs farther apart to help balance himself.

“Did you hate her, too, then when she chose my dad?  Is that why you sent him after her? In revenge?”

Snape jerked backwards as if Harry had slapped him. His eyes flashed dangerously, his nostrils flared and his teeth clenched together, but he remained silent.

“Why did you call me here, Snape?” Harry finally asked in irritation when it appeared that Snape had nothing more to say. “You get lonely out here on your own? Looking to rendezvous for a one-off, or something?” he snarled. “Thought maybe I’d be more willing this time? That I’d be grateful, perhaps, and you wouldn’t have to threaten to assault Hermione again to get my mouth around you? Is that it? Or were you hoping I’d bring her along for you?”

“Pott—” Snape began, taking an aggressive step forward before his head snapped back with sudden force.

She and Harry both raised their wands simultaneously as Snape staggered backwards clutching his nose.

“You piece of shit!” Ron roared, throwing off the invisibility cloak and charging Snape.  “You’ll never touch her.  You’ll never touch either of them again!”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Hermione cried in fear.

Snape’s wand soared out of his hand before he had a chance to react, to defend himself against Ron, who caught him in the chest. Then they both went down in the tall reeds.

“Ron!” Harry shouted in alarm as Hermione hurried around the pool toward the struggling men. 

Ron had straddled Snape’s chest, pinning him to the ground while he continued to throw punches at Snape’s head.

“ _Impedimenta!_ ” Harry yelled hoarsely, knocking Ron off of Snape.

“ _INCARCEROUS_ ,” Hermione shouted at the same time.

Ropes flew from her wand and bound Snape from neck to ankles as Ron jumped back to his feet, whirling on Harry, who was struggling to make his way towards them around the water’s edge.

“What did you do that for?” Ron yelled furiously, glaring at Harry. 

Harry stopped to pick up Snape’s wand. All the color drained from his face when he stood back up. He staggered a moment before righting himself as Hermione rapped herself hard on the head to end the charm concealing her.

“I’m not finished with him,” Harry replied wearily. “Release him.” He turned to her. Hermione stared at him a moment uncertainly before flicking her wand to sever the ropes binding Snape.

“Very clever, Potter,” Snape said, still lying flat on his back in the tall grass, now wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. “I wouldn’t have thought you capable, but of course, it was Miss Granger’s plan, no doubt.”

Ron growled, kicking out at him again, though with his own wand and Harry’s and Hermione’s pointed at him, Snape did not retaliate.

“Why did you ask me here?” Harry asked again, his voice weakening even further while he held a hand out to Ron to forestall any further attacks.

“I have information for you. Dumbledore wanted you to have it when the time was right, but thanks to you, I’m no longer in a position to know when that time has come.”

“What kind of information?” Harry asked.

Snape moved suddenly, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione all raised their wands to point at his heart.

“I have something for you,” he answered with a sneer, though he moved much more slowly then, deliberately. Carefully pulling a vial from his pocket, he held it in his open palm so Harry could see it. It contained some kind of silvery substance that was not liquid and yet not gas, either. Hermione stared at it, unsure what it was, but Harry seemed to recognize it immediately.

“Memories?” he asked. “Dumbledore asked you to deliver memories to me?”

“No.  He asked me to give you the information contained in these memories when the time was right. When the Dark Lord began to keep the great serpent close to him at all times, when he no longer sent Nagini out to do his bidding. Dumbledore wanted you to have this information then and only then,” he finished, holding the vial up to Harry. 

Harry didn’t take it from him.

“I cannot wait until that time to deliver it. My life is, of course, in danger, and I am no longer privy to the Dark Lord’s plans. This is as close as I can come to fulfilling Dumbledore’s wishes. I will leave it to you to view the memories when the time is right,” he explained while Harry stared at him. 

Finally, Harry reached out cautiously and closed his hand around the vial. Hermione clutched his arm at the same time, in case it was cursed or was a portkey meant to whisk Harry away from them. Harry continued to stare intently at Snape for a long while. Then to Hermione’s great surprise, he dropped Snape’s wand at his feet and stepped back.

“What are you—” Ron began.

“You need to be careful, Snape,” Harry warned their former professor who was still lying prone and bleeding in the grass. “Tom wants you almost as much as he wants me now. He’s quite furious with you. I’d thought to kill you myself, but I can’t help but think it’s more fitting for you to live in fear of your Master coming to call on you. I saw what he did to Lucius after we’d escaped. Did you know he’s dead? Did you know Tom killed him?”

“Yes,” Snape admitted, “I am aware.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “Well, I got a front row seat.” He tapped the scar on his forehead. “He was livid. He gathered all the remaining Death Eaters for the show. All of the ones you and I didn’t manage to kill or badly injure, that is. He wanted to make an example of him, you see, show the others what the consequences would be if they disobeyed him,” Harry said bitterly. Then he wiped at his nose, which had suddenly started to drip blood.

“Harry!” Hermione cried in alarm.

“Potter, you are unwell,” Snape said, starting to sit up, but Harry pointed his wand at him again and he stilled.

“He used a bone breaker curse on Lucius. Smashing every bone in his body, one by one, until the weight of his own flesh crushed him. He was suffocating, broken bone shards piercing his organs, while his wife and son watched along with all the other Death Eaters,” Harry whispered. “I watched as Lucius screamed in agony until he could no longer draw breath. I got to watch it all, feel it all, too, and I can tell you it wasn’t pleasant. Has he ever done that in your presence? Have you ever had to witness that?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for a response. “He punished the others, too, but didn’t murder any more of them. He wanted them all dead, but he’d apparently decided that he’d suffered enough losses between those I killed and your betrayal. So instead, he made every last person in that room scream with pain until the noise was deafening before they fell unconscious, one by one.”

Harry coughed wetly into his hand then, doubling up and moaning. Hermione tightened her grip on his arm to keep him from going back to his knees.

“I hated Lucius with everything I am,” Harry continued when he could draw a wheezy breath again, straightening back up. “He was a cruel and evil man, and I would have killed him myself if I’d had the chance, but I couldn’t have done that to him. I couldn’t have done it in front of his family,” he confessed, and then he paused, wiping again at his nose as more color drained from his face. “Tom’s the devil, Snape,” Harry told him softly.

All the hairs stood up on Hermione’s arms at his voice. At the deadly calm way he spoke as he told his awful tale. Snape, too, had gone pale, almost as pale as Harry.

“Get out of England,” Harry warned him then. “Dumbledore is dead, and Tom won’t stop until he has you. Keep running, Snape, while I keep working to end him.”

They stared at each other for a very long time. Then Snape finally nodded. Harry stepped back from him, letting him get to his feet. Snape bent to retrieve his wand while she and Ron moved to either side of Harry to help support and protect him.

“I would have attempted to get them to safety, you understand, Potter,” Snape explained as he straightened again, gesturing with his head to Ron. “My priority at the time, however, was you. Your condition was most dire. I fear it may still be.” He studied Harry intently for a moment, as if searching for something in Harry’s face before glancing at her. “Get him some medical attention, Miss Granger,” Snape instructed. Then he turned, vanishing in a whirling of his cloak with a soft pop.

“Let’s go,” Ron said angrily as soon as Snape had disappeared. Hermione didn’t waste any time. Nodding grimly, she turned on the spot, pulling them all back to Grimmauld Place.

They appeared a moment later in the foyer. She and Ron couldn’t hold Harry up any longer as his knees gave way. Sliding to the floor, he landed on all fours, pulling them down with him. His body heaved, wracked with a fit of coughing. Blood fell from his nose and was expelled violently from his lungs, flecking the entryway.

“DOBBY!” Hermione yelled frantically.

The little elf appeared instantly in front of them. He shrieked in terror when he saw Harry. 

“Dobby, go fetch Madame Pomfrey, quickly!” she urged him.

He vanished with a loud crack as Harry collapsed unconscious to the floor.

~ . ~


	20. Back on His Back

“Oh, bollocks,” Harry mumbled when he opened his eyes to see Madame Pomfrey leaning over him.

“Yes, I believe those were my words exactly when I arrived here to find you unconscious and dripping blood on the floor… again,” she replied sarcastically. “I’m certain I’ve warned you to take care of yourself, Mr. Potter. I have already had words with Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley for letting you get into this state again,” she went on sternly, pursing her lips. “My patience is wearing thin, Harry.”

“’Msorry,” he apologized, his words slurring together. It hurt to breathe, and his throat ached, feeling raw from what Harry was sure was his attempt to cough up his own lung in the foyer. He remembered that. He remembered Snape and Apparating back to Grimmauld Place.  He remembered Hermione yelling for Dobby, and then nothing. He wondered if that had been hours ago now or days.

“I don’t think you’re sorry at all, but it’s no matter, because I intend to sedate you until I’m sure you’ve recovered your health sufficiently.”

“No… please, Madame Pomfrey,” he pleaded. “Please don’t do that.”

“You’ve left me no choice, really. I cannot take you to the infirmary, and I can’t stay here round the clock, either, to ensure you don’t do anything even more foolish,” she admonished, glaring at him. “You were not at all ready for apparition, Harry. You’ve torn some things inside, and I need to give you a potion to heal it. And believe me, while it’s doing its work, you won’t want to be conscious. It’s going to feel like all your insides are burning while it first cauterizes the wounds as it travels through your body, and then sets about healing them. It’s a very powerful potion.”

Harry winced at her words. It sounded terribly unpleasant, but he drew in a painful breath, opening his mouth to protest again, anyway. 

“It’s not up for debate, Potter,” she snapped angrily before he could say anything. “I’ll stun you first if I must.” 

He scowled at her, and she glared back sternly. She wasn’t even remotely intimidated by him. Of course, he was flat on his back, again. Plus, she knew better than he what his limitations were. Harry was hardly in a position to refuse, and she obviously meant every word. The healer would indeed stun him to gain his cooperation if she had to. He was sure of it. It was clear in the steely glint of her eyes, which were boring into his, and in the stubborn set of her jaw. He’d had plenty enough dealings with this witch to know when she meant business. Still, he had no desire to spend any more time tied to this bed. He loathed the idea. 

“Was it worth it, Harry?” she asked him then, ending their staring contest to sigh heavily. 

Considering her for a moment, he finally nodded his head. It was, even though every breath he took rattled in his chest and sent hot knives poking through his ribs, even though he tasted the slightly coppery tinge of blood in his mouth whenever he swallowed. It was worth it.  He’d passed the test. He’d come face to face with Snape and let him go, despite the fact that he still detested the man. 

Harry had needed to face him. He needed to know if he could still be Harry after he saw him. He needed to get answers and get back to finishing the task Dumbledore started. He had to get back control of his life, to pull himself back together and face his fears, or he might as well have stayed at Malfoy Manor forever. 

“That’s what I thought.” She looked exasperated as she poured out a measure of deep green liquid for him to swallow. “You’d do it again tomorrow if I didn’t strap you down to this bed, wouldn’t you?” she asked, though she really didn’t need a response from him. She was completely right and they both knew it. He might as well save his breath trying to deny it.

Staring up at her, his eyes pleaded with her, hoping she’d take pity on him, but he found her completely unsympathetic. She was not at all swayed by his attempt to look contrite. Finally opening his mouth in defeat, Harry let her tip the contents down his throat. There was no way he was going to win this one. He’d done what he had to do, and now he had to face the consequences.

“That one’s the sedative,” she told him, nodding as he swallowed it down. “I’ll finish my diagnostic on you before giving you the other. Goodnight, Harry,” she said as he blinked slowly, trying and failing to hold his eyes open. “I’ll see you in a couple of days,” he heard her say before he was swallowed up in blackness.

 

* * *

 

He woke up in excruciating pain, his body appearing to roar suddenly, irresistibly back into consciousness. Perhaps Ron and Hermione were late giving him another dose of the sedative, or maybe it just couldn’t hold him under in this much pain. Harry’s whole body felt like it was burning as he opened his mouth to scream. He was sure fire would be pouring from his lungs, smoke billowing out his mouth and nostrils. He felt like he could smell his own charred flesh as the potion coursed through him. The only sound that came out, though, was a strangled, pitiful cry. Not the screaming he was trying for, not the fire he was sure was raging in him. Yet even the weak sound he managed was enough to leave him breathless and caused the flames to burn hotter. 

Holy shit, he hurt! Ron or Hermione couldn’t get the sedative down him fast enough, as far as Harry was concerned. Christ, the Cruciatus didn’t hurt this much! Madame Pomfrey must surely have been furious with him to inflict this kind of unbearable pain on him, he decided. She truly was a sadist. Bloody hell! He’d said he was sorry, hadn’t he? 

He tried to sit up. He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t move as he continued to whimper in pain. Harry didn’t know if she really had strapped him down as she had threatened, or if he was in a body-bind curse, or if the sedative had simply deadened his limbs and numbed his body too much for him to move them. Maybe Hermione threw a damn calming potion into the cocktail of drugs in his system, so he could lie here calmly and not disturb anybody if he woke up while he was being burned alive from the inside. He didn’t know, and it probably wasn’t fair to think that about her, but he really didn’t care right now. Harry only knew he needed water, lots of water. He needed to extinguish the fire searing his insides before he burst into flames and turned to ash on the bed.

“Hold on, Harry,” he heard Hermione’s voice telling him from somewhere close by.

His whimpering increased in his desperation, urging her, pleading with her. Maybe he’d apologize to her for his derogatory thoughts if she would just hurry. He felt the cool liquid of the sedative on his tongue. Desperate for the pain to end, he swallowed eagerly, gratefully. Mercifully, it did, dragging him swiftly back down into the nothingness.

 

* * *

 

He woke again to find Madame Pomfrey back hovering over him. He was drifting somewhere between dreams and reality, still not fully conscious. He thought maybe she was a dream, or possibly a nightmare. He was nearly terrified to see her; afraid of what she had planned next for him. His body was tingling all over now, almost pleasantly, in fact. Slowly blinking in the daylight, Harry tried to fight against the heaviness of his eyelids as they started to droop closed again.

“Better?” she asked him. 

He attempted to nod, but found he still couldn’t move his body. He tried opening his mouth to speak, but that wasn’t working well, either. He wondered if he really was in a dream and how long he’d been out. 

“The worst is over,” she assured him. “It should be working to heal you now. You need another dose of the sedative, though.”

Even though he didn’t know if she was real, he tried to shake his head. He didn’t think he’d managed it, but she seemed to know that he was trying to refuse again, just the same.

“You may feel all right now, but the healing effect is almost as bad. It’s going to swing you around completely the other way if you’re awake for it,” she warned him as a sheen of sweat suddenly broke out over him. “The pleasure will start to build until your whole body is vibrating with it, until it’s so intense it will drive you mad, like an itch you can’t scratch,” she explained.

Harry could already feel it happening. The sensation of floating, of near weightlessness, and the pleasant tingling was turning over to constant humming under his skin now. It was vibrating all his nerve endings and making him feel flush. He felt electrically charged. He could feel it gathering in his loins like a lightning rod as his body began to spiral rapidly upwards.

Managing to open his mouth then, he started to pant like a dog in the hot sunshine. His heart pounded at the exquisite new fire burning through him. All his synapses seemed to be firing simultaneously, making his whole body throb. He was hardening painfully, so that he already wanted to scream for relief. His eyelids peeled back finally to stare wide-eyed at her. 

_Like an itch?_ he thought incredulously, staring up at her. Had she ever taken this shit? Harry was in complete ecstasy, delirious with it. His body was hovering near orgasm, yet not quite able to achieve it. He felt utterly mad with desire and terrified at the same time. It reminded him too much of the effects of the potion Bellatrix had forced on him in the dungeon.  Feeling certain that if he could have seen the potion Madame Pomfrey had given him, it would’ve been billowing with that same telltale bluish smoke. This was a nightmare. Harry was sure of it now. He started to panic then. 

Frightened sounds were coming from him between his continued panting. Harry could hear them, though they sounded like moans of pleasure to his ears, too, a mewling that begged both for it to stop and continue. Dear God! Her cruelty knew no bounds! This was an agony worse than the flames, he thought, as tears began to leak from his eyes. 

_Take it away!  Make it stop! Please let this be a nightmare. Wake up! Wake up!_ he urged himself, though he feared now that he already was.

“Yes,” she said knowingly, “see what I mean? Take this then.” She offered him the dose of sedative. Harry didn’t hesitate to swallow it down, desperate to return to the safety of the blackness.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t even opened his eyes the next time he swam up out of the darkness before he realized she was there. He knew it wasn’t Ron or Hermione, though she hadn’t yet said a word. Harry kept his eyes closed because he didn’t want to see her. The fire and the tingling were completely gone from his body now, leaving him with only the numbness and heaviness in his limbs. 

He knew the healer hadn’t been deliberately malicious. She really was trying to help him, he understood that, but this was a case where the cure was most definitely worse than the disease. He was sure she didn’t realize how the potion would affect his rattled brains, but it didn’t stop him from feeling furious with her, just the same. The horrors the potions had produced in him were still too fresh in his mind for him to feel particularly solicitous towards her. Harry still couldn’t move, and that made him angry, too, because he wanted to get the hell off this bed and out of her reach.

“You’re much better today, Harry,” Madame Pomfrey announced, though Harry tried to ignore her, feeling churlish as he feigned sleep. She wasn’t fooled, however. “I’m sorry,” she apologized at his continued silence.

There was resignation in her voice, as if this were difficult for _her_ , he thought with mild incredulity. 

“I want another day from you before I release you. You still have that slight fever. I’m hoping we can get rid of it with another day or so of rest.” 

Hearing the frustration in her voice as she slid another spoonful into his mouth, Harry didn’t even try to resist her. He just wanted this to be over, and he might as well be asleep as awake and unable to move, he decided. If he still had the fever, then the fire hadn’t burn away the Dementor inside him. It hadn’t killed the parasite if his body was still fighting against it. Being trapped awake in the numbness would surely make him go insane; so he bowed willingly into the familiar darkness once again. He was happy to be leaving her behind this time, instead of trying to cling to consciousness.

 

* * *

 

His eyes slid open, or at least Harry thought they were open. It was dark, but he was blinking, so he must be awake, he reasoned groggily. Warm and still slightly numb, his body felt heavy from so much sedation and oddly weightless at the same time. Continuing to blink back the fingers of grey fog lingering in his peripherals, he hovered in a state that was not quite conscious, yet not unconscious either, dipping in and out of the blackness for a length of time like a cork bobbing in water. Harry had no idea how long since their trip into the forest, how many days he’d lain on this bed. 

He could hear sounds when he broke the surface, fading in and out with the grayness, like the volume being turned up and down on the telly, though it wasn’t exactly conversation, or not entirely. It was something else, but he couldn’t say what with any certainty. Harry couldn’t make sense of it before it was broken by the darkness again. It was pleasant, though, like sounds of contentment; like secret whisperings, yet it also made him feel tiny prickles of foreboding at the same time. It was some unnamed fear that was bubbling in his subconscious, the sounds confusing him with their strange duality. 

Harry was hallucinating again from the drugs, like before, when Ginny was beside him, he surmised as he bobbed along, drifting between sleep and dreams. Then he felt her, the dream Ginny that wasn’t. He felt her brush against his numb side, disturbing the hairs on his arms like the rustling of a breeze against his skin. He closed his eyes again at the feeling of her so near him, happy to stay asleep here with her and pretend.

“Mmm…. don’t stop,” she whispered into the darkness. In a voice that wasn’t Ginny’s, with another, firmer brush against his side. “Yeesss,” she sighed, “please,” and then more sounds again, those terrible sounds. 

Harry knew what they were then, the realization of what he was hearing suddenly dawning on him. It plunged him straight into the dungeons, into hell, where the other person who wasn’t Ginny lived. It was as if he’d sunk right through the mattress. His body now heavy as a stone, it dragged him down to land on the table in the torture room. Harry began to struggle, but his arms and legs were strapped down again. He was and unable to move while she loomed over him. 

He’d been dropped into a nightmare, his veins filling with icy cold terror as his eyes traveled over her familiar black hair, that hated face, and those mad eyes, the dreaded curl of her lip as she regarded him. His heart launched itself into his throat, blocking the scream that was trying to get out at the horror of finding himself back with her again.

_NO!  Oh, God, No!_ This wasn’t real, Harry tried reasoning with himself. He was having a nightmare, an hallucination. He was safe in Sirius’ bed in Grimmauld Place. He was not in Malfoy Manor! This was just a memory, he thought desperately, frantic to crawl back out of the hell he suddenly found himself in. Harry tried forcing his body upwards, back into reality before the memory started. 

“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” Bellatrix hissed softly, and his whole body grew stiff on the table. 

_No more, please_ , he begged silently. God, he was so tired. His body sang with exquisite pain, so that Harry could actually hear it in his ears. She’d done with him all she could. His body surely couldn’t take anymore. Pulling the last orgasm out of him, draining him dry, she’d ripped a scream out of him as well as the last of his seed. There was nothing left in him, nothing left to give her except his blood. Surely she was satisfied by now. Surely she would let him sleep. Just for a little while. He was delirious with pain and fatigue.

“Haarrrryyy,” she purred, drawing his name out as she crawled up his frozen body, dragging her breasts up his battered chest. “You’ve had all the fun, my boy,” she said with a pout, staring down at him. “You still have so much to learn about pleasuring a witch.” Leaning down, she rubbed her breasts against his frozen face, sliding her hardened nipples across his lips while he could do nothing but lie beneath her, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Your fame might get the little slags in your bed, Harry, but you’ll need to do better than what you’ve shown me tonight if you hope to keep them there,” she teased with a lilt in her voice. “I think maybe another lesson perhaps on how to properly satisfy a woman? It’s not all about you, you know,” she told him, a smile breaking across her cruel face.

Bellatrix continued up Harry’s body. Straddling his chest, her weight pressed down on his fractured ribs so that he couldn’t draw breath. Pain radiated out across his sternum, his shoulders, and down his arms. Finally her thighs pressed down on his shoulders, her damp snatch pressed against his chin as she smiled down at him.

“Do you know what cunnilingus is, wittle Harry? Did you get that far in your fumblings with the little Weasley tart?” she asked. Pushing his chin down to force his jaw open, she slid her finger into his mouth, across his tongue and then out to brush across his lips, wetting them with his own saliva as he continued to stare at the ceiling, unable to answer her even if he would have wanted to. 

“Girls like a little something more than just you pumping their cunts, you know? You should show a little consideration. It’s only fair. I’ve sucked you off tonight, Harry. You should return the favor.”

Yes, she’d sucked him off at one point tonight. Harry remembered it vividly. He could still feel the sting of the scratches from her teeth on his raw shaft, the bite marks on his scrotum from where she’d drawn blood. If she wanted him to reciprocate, she could release him from this cursed spell, and he’d gladly show her what he could do with his teeth, Harry thought savagely. He’d eat her out literally. He longed to tear her open with his teeth. But she wasn’t that stupid. Bellatrix knew he would attack at the first opportunity. She’d been careful to keep her sensitive bits away from his face or hands up until now.

She was pushing her fingers back into his mouth again and down his throat. He would have gagged if he wasn’t frozen by the curse. Tugging on Harry’s tongue, she stretched it out of his mouth as she continued to force his chin down to his chest, opening his jaw wider. Then she lifted her hips and sat down on his face, his tongue pressed against the swollen lips of her vulva, his bottom teeth digging into the back of his tongue painfully. 

The smell of their mingled juices filled his nostrils, as his nose was buried against her pubic hair. He could taste them both as their combined fluids ran into his mouth and pooled on his tongue, sliding down to coat his raw throat, giving him a taste of what she’d previously pulled from his reluctant body. Slowly, she rocked against his face, rubbing herself along his extended tongue, across his lips and nose, until he feared he might suffocate, or drown. Harry wished like hell he could throw this curse off, too. Trying desperately, he was concentrating on it with all his might while she continued to grind against his face. 

Lifting up slightly to rest on her knees, Bellatrix hovered over him slightly, relieving some of the pressure on his chest and neck, which sent a fresh wave of agony through him. Grabbing handfuls of his hair then, she tilted his head back to run his tongue along her gash. She rolled Harry’s head back and forth, forcing him to lap at her folds as she braced herself over him, moaning now at the pleasure she was creating for herself, of having him under her control. Harry knew she was frustrated, though. Bellatrix wanted him to be her willing slave. She wanted him in such a frenzy, that he’d beg to fuck her, but she hadn’t expected to find him so difficult and stubborn. He fought her for every orgasm. He’d rather his balls turn blue and fall off than ever come for her voluntarily. And she’d learned quickly that she couldn’t hold him under the Imperius curse, either. 

He would not be her puppet. She might be able to strangle him into orgasm, but he refused to give her anything more. He’d stop that if he could. Already, he felt the bruises around his neck from her fingers digging into his skin. But this wasn’t real, Harry told himself vehemently. He was remembering. This was a memory, not his reality any longer! Those bruises had faded, and he wasn’t really here. He wasn’t back in this place again.

Suddenly, there was the brush on his arm again, a stroking this time, as if to calm him. It was Ginny again. 

_Yes! Ginny, please_ , he prayed desperately. _Pull me up. Help me!_

Harry heard soft cries of pleasure, muffled moans in his ears. 

Bellatrix released his head and forced her fingers back into his mouth, scratching the back of his throat with a long nailed finger so he wanted to gag again, but couldn’t. Wetting her fingers, she began to rub herself vigorously as she went back to rocking her hips over his mouth and tongue frantically, working towards her release, her cries mingling with the others in his ears. And still Harry stared at the ceiling, desperately willing himself to wake up.

The fingers stroking his arm slipped into his hand, squeezing. He tried to squeeze back, tried to hold on, to let her pull him up and out of this horrible nightmare.

All at once, Harry broke the surface again, bobbing back into consciousness, back into the present. There was a muffled cry in his ears. He wasn’t sure if it was his, or an echo of Bellatrix as she reached her climax at last. His eyes flew open to stare into darkness. His heart thundered as he tried to jerk upwards; intent on fleeing, to keep from being pulled down again, but his body was still too heavy or he was still pinned down. He was breathing hard, all the sounds muffled by the roaring in his ears.

She wasn’t here, he wasn’t there anymore, Harry chanted to himself over and over again. He was safe. He was safe now. Trying to stop panicking, Harry attempted to get control of himself again as the images continued to swirl in his head. He could still smell Bellatrix. The smell of their sex, the evidence of his rape was heavy in the air, making him fear that she was lingering somewhere in the darkened room, ready to pull him back down again. He was still clinging to the hand clasped in his as tightly as he could. 

“Shhhh,” she whispered.

It was Hermione’s voice. Harry knew it now. It was Hermione, not Ginny and not her. His mind had caught up finally, mercifully. He went boneless on the bed then in exhausted relief, though he refused to let go of her hand. He needed to cling to her again tonight, like he had after the memories of Snape. Harry was still completely terrified to let go, afraid to be alone, even though he’d accepted the reality of where he was now. He was scared to close his eyes again, but they were so heavy with fatigue. Still afraid he might have brought her back here with him, he worried Hermione might have pulled her up with him. Harry was still totally numb, immobile and utterly defenseless against her, his body still frozen from her curse. 

No, it was not a curse, he remembered suddenly. It was a potion. A potion Madame Pomfrey had given him, to punish him.

Hermione reached up and stroked his face with her free hand, turning slightly to face him as she continued to whisper to him. Sliding the damp hair away from his sweaty forehead, she brushed her knuckles across his temples, running her thumb over his eyebrows and causing his eyes to close automatically. 

Harry was still afraid. Terrified that Bellatrix was waiting for that moment to pull him down again, but he couldn’t help it, he was completely worn out. It felt like he’d been trying to swim against the tide for hours, fighting against the undertow.

Squeezing his fingers in hers, Hermione continued stroking the backs of his knuckles with her thumb while she carded her other hand through his hair. Murmuring nonsense words into the darkness, she soothed his traumatized mind, until he relaxed back into sleep.

~ . ~


	21. Riddles and Secrets

Ron met Madame Pomfrey on the landing when he exited the bathroom. His hair still damp, still barefoot, he looked ridiculous as he clutched Hermione’s beaded bag and another letter from Ginny to Harry that Pigwidgeon had dropped on his head as soon as he’d arrived downstairs this morning. 

The good news was, Ginny hadn’t sent him another howler along with it. The bad news was that she’d sent the letter with Pig, who’d then whizzed around his head, hooting shrilly with great excitement at finding Ron and delivering the letter.

Ginny must have told him not to come back without a reply, or something, because he flat refused to return to Aunt Muriel’s. Or maybe the tiny owl was simply thrilled to see Ron after so long. Whatever the reason, Ron retreated to the bathroom finally to get away from the relentless bird, letting Dobby tend to him before he resorted to stunning the nutter just to get some peace. He’d have to get Hermione to conjure a cage for him later because Ron didn’t have high hopes that Harry would reply to Ginny at all (he hadn’t even opened the first letter), and that meant the daft bird may be around for a bit.

“Oh… Madame Pomfrey,” he said in startled surprise when he nearly knocked her down. He’d had to grab her arm to steady her when he walked right into her on his way out of the bathroom. “Sorry about that,” he apologized. 

She was becoming a familiar face at Grimmauld Place again as she’d been coming every day to check on Harry for the last three days, but he still wasn’t expecting to literally run into her in the hallway. 

“Mr. Weasley,” she greeted him with a nod of her head and a half smile as she tried to get her bearings after righting herself, her white healer’s cap still knocked a bit askew. “How is Mr. Potter this morning?”

“Dunno really.” Ron shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed. “He was still asleep when I came down for my shower, but he might be awake by now. I was later than usual getting in the bathroom. Hermione’s with him.” They mounted the steps back to Sirius’ bedroom together. “I bet he won’t be happy to see you today, though,” he told her somewhat apologetically, knowing the welcome she was likely to receive from Harry.

“No, I don’t expect he will, but I’m trying to keep that boy alive, not cultivate our friendship,” she replied a bit briskly as they reached the door. 

Ron tapped once as he turned the handle to let Hermione (and Harry too, if he was awake) know that he was coming in with company.

Harry was sitting propped up on the bed as he had been so much of their time here at Grimmauld Place, and Hermione was standing next to him. The look on her face as they both turned to him made Ron think immediately something was wrong. It looked as if he and Madame Pomfrey had walked in on a row they were having. 

The healer must have assumed so, too, because she asked, “Did we interrupt something?”

Harry’s eyes went dark at the sight of them both. It was clear to Ron that he was madder than hell at Madame Pomfrey or maybe at all of them. Ron glanced at Hermione then, raising his eyebrows, asking silently for some explanation or for some direction on how to proceed, but she looked away from him to stare at the floor while a flush spread across her cheeks. It sent warning bells going off in his head. Now he was really worried.

“Good morning, Harry,” Madame Pomfrey greeted him. “Hermione.”

Stepping back away from Harry, Hermione mumbled a reply as Madame Pomfrey nodded at her. She switched places with the healer as she made her way to Harry’s side, and Hermione came to stand beside Ron. He glanced down at her again, but she was still resolutely not meeting his eyes.

“Is there something I should know?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth to her, but she only twisted her hands together and bit her lips, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. 

Shit! Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Why couldn’t it ever be good news, he lamented. Why couldn’t it be, “Hey, Harry’s all better, feeling great, and we’re going for ice cream!” or something? Why did every day have to be a steaming pile of dung they had to wade through? It was bullshit, and he was getting tired of it.

“How are you feeling today, Harry?” Madame Pomfrey asked, sitting down next to him on the bed while he glared at her, clearly in a foul mood.

“I’d like to get the hell out of this bed today if you’re done punishing me,” he replied belligerently.

Ron’s mouth opened in surprise. If Harry was talking like that to Madame Pomfrey, they were in for a real pleasant day, he thought miserably. 

“I’m not punishing you, Harry,” she responded patiently.

“That potion you gave me was designed for torture, not healing,” he accused. “It was a powerful aphrodisiac and liquid Cruciatus rolled into one.”

“It’s true that it has been used to torture in the past. I warned you that it was very powerful. Many potions and spells which were initially created for nefarious purposes have been modified for medical use. Without the sedative—”

“You meant for it to hurt. You meant to mess with my mind.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she snapped, bristling at the accusation. “Don’t be ridiculous. I used it because I wanted to heal you as quickly as possible, to keep from dragging your recovery out any longer. Severus’ potion was the most effective means to that end.”

She tried reaching towards him then, but Harry jerked back from her, making Ron’s eyebrows crawl farther up his forehead at Harry’s reaction and at the news that the potion Harry clearly despised was one of Snape’s own creations. He didn’t know why that surprised him, however, because he believed, like Harry, that it probably was designed to torture if Snape created it. Torture and humiliate if he could manage it. Then Ron remembered what Harry had said to the bastard in the forest, about what the taste of potions reminded him of. He felt white hot anger again at what the scum had done to Harry. Still incredulous that Harry just let him go, that he’d stopped Ron from beating the piece of shit to death.

“May I check your temperature, Harry?” she asked then, attempting to keep the irritation in her voice to a minimum as she reached for him again. 

Harry didn’t retreat this time, allowing her to place her hands against his face and neck as he sat stiffly on the bed while still glaring at her.

“If you’ve planned on giving me another potion, Madame Pomfrey, you might as well try and stun me now because I’m not taking anything else,” he warned her in a low growl. “Not from you or anyone. Not without a fight.”

Holy shit! That potion must have been a really nasty piece of work to rile him this bad. Though if it was anything like he described, Harry had good reason to be angry. 

Ron glanced down at Hermione, who looked back up at him with growing concern on her face, and then with something like a warning before returning her gaze to Harry.

“Call me Poppy!” Madame Pomfrey snapped, grasping Harry’s wrist now to take his pulse. 

“What?” Harry asked in confusion.

“If you feel comfortable enough to threaten me, or accuse me of trying to harm you, then I think we should at least both be on a first name basis.” 

“I’m not threatening you,” he muttered, looking at least a tiny bit chagrined.

“You’ve just said you plan to attack me if I attempt to do anything else to aid in your recovery.”

“That was not aiding me in any way, shape, or form. It did me no favors. I promise you.”

“I think we will have to agree to disagree on that,” she responded. “Are you in any pain?”

“No,” he answered.

“No trouble breathing or swallowing? Coughing up any blood? Shooting pains in your ribs or stomach? ” she questioned him rapid fire.

“No, but—”

“Any nausea or dizziness? Headache?”

“NO!” he snapped angrily.

“Well, when I told you you’d torn some things, I didn’t mean a hang nail,” she bit back, matching his angry tone. “You were still trying to recover from some very extensive trauma. I had to do what I deemed necessary to try and quickly reverse the damage you’d caused yourself. Especially since it’s clear that patience is not one of your virtues, Harry. Nor it seems is any modicum of self-preservation.” 

Ron stifled a laugh at the look on Harry’s face from the tongue lashing he was receiving at the hands of the formidable healer. Harry could be downright nasty when he was angry, but she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by him. Of course, she didn’t know that he could melt her right where she sat if she continued to provoke him. It was easy not to be afraid when you hadn’t seen it firsthand. Still, it looked like Harry might have bitten off more than he could chew here, and Ron was thoroughly enjoying it. 

Ron had yet to win an argument with anyone of the female persuasion. Not Ginny, not his mother, and certainly not Hermione. Now he knew not to tangle with Madame Pomfrey either. Maybe it was the same with all girls. He hadn’t met one yet that couldn’t take him straight to the mat in an argument. They were vicious things, girls. They all fought in a no-holds-barred, battle to the death kind of way; nothing was off limits. Harry was way out of his league.

“I already knew you would refuse pain potions if we tried to do it more slowly,” she explained then, her voice more calm. “Knowing you as I do, Harry, as my patient, I made every attempt to get you back on your feet as quickly as possible. If I’ve made a mistake in that regard then I’m truly sorry.” 

Then she did something completely unexpected, to Ron anyway. Leaning up, she quickly kissed Harry on the forehead. Harry’s eyebrows were in his fringe now, too, where Ron’s had been pretty much since he’d walked in the room. When she pulled back away from him, Harry looked utterly floored. 

Yup, Ron thought, that’s what he meant right there. They’re vicious, totally unpredictable. Anything goes with witches. With Hermione, you’re as likely to get hexed or slapped, as kissed or cried on in the middle of a heated row, and sometimes, all the above. A bloke can’t defend against an attack from that many angles. It’s completely mental.

“You are a stubborn man, Harry,” Madame Pomfrey told him. She looked at him a moment, then sighed and stood up, gathering her bag. “You’re as healthy as I’m apt to get you for now, and seeing as you would prefer to see the back of me, I’ll go. Frankly, the less we see of each other, the happier I’ll be.”

Harry looked, if possible, even more shocked at her words. 

“It will mean that you’re healthy and safe. And I can’t help but feel that it’s a good sign for those of us on your side, dear. No news right now is good news when it comes to you and this war,” she said as she walked away from him. 

Ron could see that her eyes were a bit watery as she approached Hermione and him. 

“If you should need me again,” she told Hermione, “make sure you go ahead and stun him first _before_ summoning me.” Then she strode to the door.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologized, coming out of his shock as she reached for the handle, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard. “Madame Pomfrey,” he called. “Please… I’m sorry.”

She nodded her head once before pulling open the door. “Good luck to you, Harry,” she replied quietly without turning back to look at him. 

After a second’s hesitation, Hermione followed her out, leaving Ron to deal with what was left of Harry’s anger, or to muddle his way through whatever had started between the two of them before he arrived. 

_Brilliant_ , he thought. _Thanks a lot, luv_.

Ron stood awkwardly for a moment, still holding Hermione’s bag and the letter for Harry before finally deciding to just get on with it. He sat down on the opposite end of the bed, facing across from Harry.

“So, feeling better then?” he asked as Madame Pomfrey’s and Hermione’s footsteps faded away, trying to sound cheerful. “Ginny sent you another letter. I know you didn’t have time to respond to the last one yet.” He tossed the letter to Harry. “I reckon she’s not giving up, though. She sent Pig this time, and it looks like he’s waiting around for a response. Assuming Dobby hasn’t murdered him by now, that is.”

Harry just stared at the letter near his left hand, making no effort to pick it up. Then his face clouded up again. Ron sighed, feeling weary already, and they hadn’t even made it down to breakfast yet today. 

“So, we’re not going for ice cream then, I’m guessing,” he muttered dispiritedly.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just wishful thinking. Have you been up yet?” he asked, trying again.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know if I can on my own again,” he responded bitterly. “I’m not sure how much I’ve lost. I don’t know from how far back I’ll have to crawl this time.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad, Harry,” Ron told him reassuringly. “You haven’t been out that long this time.”

“What day is it?”

“Um… Tuesday, I think.”

“Four days?” Harry asked, sounding stunned.

“Well, three plus part of Friday, yeah,” Ron replied. “So do you want me to help you get—”

“And what have you and Hermione been up to while I’ve been knocked out?” Harry asked sharply then, his tone accusatory.

“Uh…” said Ron, treading cautiously, unsure where they were headed, but sensing they were nearing what the row between him and Hermione had been about.

“I asked Hermione what the hell she was playing at, but she didn’t have an answer for me. Maybe you do,” Harry continued angrily.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up again. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he growled, “I’d put two and two together a few days ago and realized you two were fucking—”

“Hey!” Ron yelled indignantly.

“But I didn’t know you were doing it in the bed right next to me!” Harry shouted back with the same indignation. “What the hell, Ron? I woke up last night in the middle of it all, strung out on those damn potions, and had a flashback. I thought I was back there, in the dungeon. I thought… with her.” He shuddered violently. “You fucking prick! It was a goddamn nightmare, and I couldn’t claw my way out. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ron felt his ears getting hot as his mouth fell open, gaping at Harry. He felt both angry and embarrassed, horrified at what he was hearing. _Sshhiiittt!_

“I… I knew you woke up last night. I knew you’d had a nightmare,” Ron stuttered, trying to explain. “Hermione helped get you calmed down and back to sleep again. I didn’t know we were the cause of it, though. I’m sorry, Harry,” he apologized. “I didn’t know we woke you up.”

“Is that it? You’re just sorry? How long has this been going on?” Harry demanded. “How did you think I’d react when I found out? Is that why you’re both so happy to dose me all the time? Can’t wait to knock me out so you two can shag? Did you get a nice little birthday fuck after your party?”

“That’s en—”

“You couldn’t keep your hands off her after what happened in the dungeons? How long did it take you to crawl into her knickers? She’d been raped, you arse!” Harry shouted.

_Oh, hell no,_ Ron thought angrily. _Hell. No!_

“I haven’t forgotten what happened to her,” he snarled. “I had to stand there and watch. I had to watch what _you_ did to her,” Ron bit back savagely, pointing an accusing finger at Harry, his face red with anger now. “I’m the one who had to help her hold herself together once we got out of there. I was the one who helped keep her from falling apart. I never forced myself on her. That was you!” he yelled furiously.

All the color had drained from Harry’s face at his words.

“Ron,” Hermione called softly.

Both he and Harry whipped their heads around to stare at her, neither of them having heard her come back into the room during their heated exchange. 

Ron found himself on his knees, leaning towards Harry. He didn’t remember getting to them. Slowly, he lowered himself back down to the bed, trying to calm down.

“I think you’ve said enough,” she admonished.

But Ron didn’t agree. It was about time they had some of this out. He’d been dying to get some of this shit off his chest since their visit to Snape. This was the perfect opportunity to say what he needed to say, he thought as he turned back to Harry.

“Hermione and I are just two people trying to find a little time for each other in the chaos of caring for you,” he told Harry, trying to keep his voice steady. “But I’m just about finished apologizing to you. I’m done coddling you. What we did was inconsiderate, I’ll give you that.  I’m sorry, okay? I’ll admit that I wasn’t thinking much about _your_ feelings at the time. I said I was sorry, and I meant it. It won’t happen again. But I’m warning you, too. You make another snarky comment about Hermione like that, and I’ll kick your arse. I’ve warned you before, and you just keep pushing my buttons. I’m not telling you again. You can attack me all you want, but you leave her out of this,” he warned, staring hard at Harry and pointing back towards Hermione. “I told you I’m not leaving you, and I won’t, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to lie down and take this shit either. If you want to fight, then fine, let’s fight. And when it’s all over, I’ll call Madame Pomfrey back to patch you up again, and we’ll go on.”

“Ron, you’re not helping,” Hermione interrupted, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He wasn’t finished. Harry needed to hear what he had to say, and he was just warming up.

“Why is it that you’re taking all your anger and frustration out on me and Hermione, anyway?” he asked. “I get punched in the jaw and pummeled in the guts for trying to protect my family, but you let Snape just walk away without touching him after what he did to you? What the hell is that about? I stood there watching him. I stood right next to that greasy bastard under the cloak, my wand pointed at his chest the whole time. Watching you weaken and damn near collapse from the strain, I listened to every word out of both of your mouths. And you did nothing. It was like you were letting him do it to you all over again.”

Harry flinched, recoiling back against the pillows. 

“I stood there until I couldn’t take it anymore, and then, when I try and avenge you, when I finally gave that bastard what he had coming, I’m the one you attacked?” Ron couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice now. “I’m the one you raised your wand to finally? You protected _him_?” he yelled, outraged. “So my question to you is this: What the fuck is wrong with you? Was I supposed to just stand there while he got a stiffy thinking about what he’d done to you? Was I supposed to just let him walk away after what he did? I don’t think so,” he growled. “You need to start realizing who the enemy is here ‘cause it sure as hell isn’t me and Hermione, and you’ve been attacking us since you woke up. The first shot you have at someone you really owe payback to, and you folded,” he spat in disgust, glaring at Harry.

Harry just stared at him, total silence falling in the room except for the sound of Ron’s heavy breathing. Clenching his jaw, Harry curled and uncurled his fingers before he finally spoke in a voice of forced calm. “I couldn’t kill him, Ron… I believe him. I still hate him, but I believed what he told me, and I needed the answers he gave me. If I hadn’t knocked you off him, he’d never have given me the memories.”

“All right, fine. What about after? You could have killed him after getting what you needed from him. You could have at least cursed his dick into a knot. Castrated the fucking pervert—”

“It’s all or nothing with me right now, Ron. Okay? There is no in between. I either had to kill him, or let him walk away,” Harry interrupted. Then he paused, pressing his lips together, breathing deeply before saying in a lower voice, “I’m trying to hold on to me,” he explained, pointing at his own chest. “I’m not who I was anymore. I tried to goad Snape into attacking me. I tried to give myself a reason. I couldn’t just kill him in cold blood. He tried to save my life in there, whatever else he did.”

“And the others? The ones on your list?” Ron questioned then. “What about them? Are you just going to go up to them and ask them nicely to apologize for what they did to you? And then, if they’re real sorry, all is forgiven?” he mocked.

“The people I killed in the dungeon deserved it and more,” Harry responded between gritted teeth, his face reddening with anger again. “If I could, I’d bring them back just so I could kill them again more slowly,” he said savagely. “The ones left? I’ll be smiling while I’m doing it. I can promise you that.” His voice had gone cold then, and the look in his eyes told Ron he meant it. “Snape’s not on the list anymore, Ron. Maybe one day, if I see him again, I’ll kick him in the balls, but you don’t get to tell me I was a coward—”

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You’re right that I’ve been taking it out on you guys, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden to you both,” he sneered. “Don’t worry, though. You can be certain the coddling is over,” Harry told him, throwing Ron’s words back at him. “But you could have shown me a little courtesy. If I’m interfering in your ‘relationship time’, then I’m real sorry about that, too. Maybe the two of you could’ve moved out into one of the other half-dozen rooms in this godforsaken house instead of drugging me. As a matter of fact, I think that would be best for all of us if you two did.”

“NO,” both Ron and Hermione said in unison.

“No,” Ron repeated. “We’re not moving out, and we haven’t been drugging you!” he said indignantly. “You can sleep in the middle, or something, to make sure I keep my horny little hands to myself if you like, or one of us can sleep in the chair, but I’m not leaving you alone in here.”

“So you’re not done coddling me then? You think I need round-the-clock supervision, a full-time minder? You think I’m a nutter, just waiting for the chance to be alone to finish the job I started?” he accused turning his arms wrists up.

Ron stared hard at him a minute before answering. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “Sometimes, yeah… I do. I think you know it, too. I think you’re closer to it than you want us to see, and it scares the shit out of me. I think you’re lashing out at me because I got out of the dungeons unscathed. I think you hate me for not being able to help you or Hermione. I hate myself for it, too. I really do.”

The overpowering feeling of hopelessness and guilt he felt in the dungeons was washing over him again. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop what they did to you, Harry.  I couldn’t do anything then to help you, but I’m doing my best to help you now,” he told him earnestly, his anger at Harry totally gone, replaced with a deep, aching sadness. 

Staring at him for a long time, Harry absorbed his words, and the anger seemed to recede from his face, too, the fight having finally gone out of the both of them. Ron hoped so, anyway. He’d already said things today he regretted, adding more transgressions to the list of things he had to apologize for.

“I’d like to help you now, if you’ll let me.” He slid off the bed, coming around to stand next to Harry. “Are you ready to see how much you’ve lost in the last few days, or do you want to do it on your own?” he asked. “Because I’m fucking starving, and if we don’t get our arses downstairs soon, Dobby will be feeding us Pigwidgeon. I know you have to be hungry, too. You’ve been on those nourishment potions again for the last few days. You probably think Pig sounds delicious right now.”

Harry stared up at him for a few seconds, and then pulled Ginny’s note, still lying on the bed to him while Ron and Hermione stood silently watching him, Hermione wiping her eyes again. He flipped it over in his hand to see his name on the envelope in Ginny’s handwriting, the corners of his mouth turning down again as he stared at it. Without opening it, he set it on top of his journal on the side table. Then he turned on the bed and reached out for Ron.

Immediately bending down to Harry to help him stand, Ron placed his arms around Harry’s back, gripping him. Harry, in turn, slid his arms around Ron’s shoulders, his hands linked behind his head, both of them moving automatically together, working as a unit without having to think about it. It was like a well-rehearsed dance, the choreography so familiar to them both, the steps memorized by heart. It was clear Harry didn’t need the help, however, once he was on his feet. He stood on his own with only the smallest bit of unsteadiness. 

Ron slid his hands down to Harry’s waist, to step back from him, but Harry held onto his shoulders, holding the embrace. Leaning into Ron so that their chests were touching, he ran a hand back up Ron’s neck.

“I don’t hate you for what happened at the Malfoy’s,” Harry told him quietly, his mouth close to Ron’s ear, and his warm breath on Ron’s neck. “I never wanted them to touch you, either of you. I tried my best to make sure it didn’t happen.” His fingers tightened on Ron’s neck for an instant. “It’s me I hate for getting us all in there in the first place.” He paused a moment, sighing deeply, before he went on. “I’m sorry I’m so angry, Ron. I know it’s not your fault. I know you’re trying to help me, both of you. Sometimes I’m just so tired of being me,” he finished on a whisper. Then he drew away, letting his hands slide off Ron’s shoulders. “I think I can manage,” he told Ron, stepping back from him so Ron’s hands fell away from his waist to dangle heavily at his sides. “Thanks.”

With that, he turned and made his way to the bathroom, leaving Ron standing there with his heart beating faster than it should. He felt stunned by that last emotional punch to the gut Harry had just delivered to him. 

Fucking sneak bastard!  Harry had never been a touchy bloke in the first place. Ron wasn’t either, for that matter. They’d both grown accustomed to touching each other these last few weeks with Harry so badly injured, but that was a hug, an actual Harry-initiating-it hug. He struggled to recall an instance of it ever happening before. It left him reeling slightly.

Ron stared after Harry until he closed the bathroom door behind him, and then he looked at Hermione. She gave him a sort of grimace, her eyes still watery. Ron drew in a breath and blew it out, running a hand through his hair. He really was exhausted now. He felt raw. What a bloody ordeal. Every damn day was just a new version of hell.

“Thanks for letting me just walk right into that.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say,” Hermione apologized. “He just sort of blindsided me with it when I came out of the bathroom, and then you and Madame Pomfrey were there before I could even say anything. I was worried that we woke him up last night. It’s my fault. I was trying to keep him calm, you know, like I had done before, rubbing his arm, but I think it disturbed him more. He accused me of doing it on purpose.”

“Do you want to move to a different room?” he asked her.

“No, Ron, I don’t. We both said no. I don’t want to leave him alone here either.”

“All right, I’m just checking. Do you have some sweatpants or something you could wear to bed from now on, though?” he asked. “Maybe a little less temptation for me at night? Because if you’re sleeping in just your knickers still, I don’t think it will matter if Harry sleeps between us from now on or not. I’m still likely to crawl over him to get to you.”

She gave a little snort before saying, “Yes, I think I can manage that.” Then more seriously, she asked, “Do you really think he’ll sleep in the middle?”

Ron just shrugged in response. It looked like opportunities to engage in his new favorite pastime were about to dry up, he thought mournfully.

“Dunno. I hope it’s that instead of one of us taking the chair. I’ve slept there before and it’s worse than the middle. We’ll work something out,” he assured her.

It was late by the time they made it downstairs for breakfast. Ron helped Harry a little bit on the stairs, but otherwise, he really appeared to be doing fine on his own. They probably could’ve made it down to the kitchen today, but Hermione didn’t think Harry should push it, and they agreed. They’d be back to slathering the minty ointment on Harry’s thighs tonight if he overdid it. 

It was kind of nice to be helping Harry again, though. He’d missed it, actually, which was weird. He shouldn’t be wishing for Harry to be needing his help, but maybe it was just because things had calmed down so much after their big row this morning, and it made him feel close to Harry. Maybe it was a good thing that things had come to a head. They all seemed to be on the same page again now, anyway.

Dobby didn’t feed them Pigwidgeon for breakfast, as he feared, but Ron was wishing he had after about an hour of his shrill hooting. Hermione conjured a cage for the tiny owl, but it didn’t silence him. He looked positively thrilled to be in their presence again after so long. 

Harry ate second helpings of everything, his appetite back full force as he sat chatting with Dobby, who, at Harry’s invitation, was sitting next to him on the couch, which had sent the elf into hysterics for a bit. 

Dobby had been beside himself with worry when they’d returned from their trip into the forest, when he saw the state Harry was in. It was good for Harry to spend some time reassuring the elf, letting him know that he was feeling better and thanking him for his help, fetching the healer and caring for them all.

Harry truly did seem healthier than he had since their capture. However Harry felt about the potion, there was no question that Madame Pomfrey had done an amazing job helping him to recover, in Ron’s opinion. Harry must have thought so, too, because he asked Dobby if he knew what Madame Pomfrey’s favorite sweets were.

“Dobby doesn’t know, sir,” the elf replied.

“Well, I’d like to thank her for all her help, and apologize for being such a jerk this morning, Dobby.”

“Maybe you could write a letter, Harry Potter, sir.”

“If it’s intercepted, it could mean a lot of trouble for her. I can’t do that.”

“Dobby would be glad to take it. Dobby would make sure that no one else was around before giving it to her, sir,” he offered earnestly.

“I’m sure you would. I trust you, Dobby,” Harry told him, and the elf beamed at him. “But I’m rubbish at apologies, too. Do you think maybe you could get the finest box of chocolates from Honeydukes for me and deliver them to her, Dobby?” he asked. “Tell her they’re from me, tell her… tell her how sorry I am?”

“Of course, sir,” Dobby agreed immediately. “Of course, Harry Potter.”

Harry rummaged around for some gold before sending Dobby off on his errand, after assuring him that he didn’t need to worry about making their lunch and going over what he wanted the elf to say to Madame Pomfrey one more time. 

Ron was impressed. Harry must have read his copy of the book, _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches,_ he’d bought Harry for his birthday cover to cover, he decided. If he hadn’t, he sure was a fast learner. Even Hermione looked like she might melt in his arms. She looked like his mum did whenever Harry looked at her with those stupid eyes. It was a bit annoying, really.

Harry had brought down his journal and the rubber ball, but he really didn’t need either of them any longer. And Ron, throwing caution to the wind, decided to test the new peace in the house after they’d finished breakfast and Dobby had departed.

“Are you going to read the letters from Ginny?”

“No,” Harry answered quietly, glancing at his journal where he’d added the new letter to the back, joining the first. “I can’t, Ron.”

“Look, I know I asked you to stay away from her and all back in the summer, Harry, but you don’t have to do that anymore. I can see you miss her, and she’s clearly not giving up on you. She’s safe at Aunt Muriel’s now.”

“It’s more than that, Ron. I can’t… I just can’t. Not right now, maybe not at all anymore. I’ve got to finish this.” 

“Then you should write back and tell her.”

“I did tell her,” he argued, sighing. “I told her not to come back. I don’t think I can say it again, okay? Even in a letter.”

“All right,” Ron relented, nodding his head, but frowning slightly. He decided to drop the matter. There was nothing to be gained by pushing harder. That went all right, though, he reasoned. There weren’t any angry flare-ups from Harry. Maybe they’d turned a corner. Still, his eyes fell on Pigwidgeon who hooted happily once in greeting. Ron sighed. It looked like the feathery menace was theirs again for a while.

Talk then turned to Snape as the afternoon wore on. He and Hermione had discussed it some while Harry was recovering, but Harry was the one with the real answers.

“Harry? Can we… can we talk about the meeting with Snape?” Hermione asked tentatively.

Harry looked up at her, having been doodling in his journal again for the last several minutes. He set down his quill then and nodded. 

“You said you believed Snape,” she began. “I do, too. I believe he was actually working for the Order. Well, for Dumbledore anyway, although I can’t explain some of the things he did… and certainly not what he did to you,” she went on quickly. “But what do you think is in those memories he gave you?”

Harry pulled the mokeskin pouch from around his neck. He’d put it on this morning for the first time since they left the dungeons. It contained a broken mirror shard, his broken wand pieces, a page of a letter from Harry’s mother to Sirius, the Snitch Dumbledore had given him in his will, the Marauder’s Map, and now a small glass vial of silvery memories. Opening it, he withdrew the memories and the Snitch, contemplating the objects a few moments before speaking.

“Snape said he wasn’t to give me the information until Vol—until Riddle started protecting Nagini,” he said, catching himself, causing Ron to nearly have a heart attack. “I think it means that if he starts protecting the snake, then he’ll know we’re after his Horcruxes. Maybe Dumbledore believed that would mean we’re close since the snake would be the last one we’d be able to get, probably, before Tom himself. Dumbledore wanted me to know something important before I face him. But not before then.” 

He went silent again, rolling the small golden ball in his fingers. It was the object he’d obsessed over for weeks in the tent, ever since their meeting with Luna’s lunatic father. Harry was sure Dumbledore had left him the resurrection stone inside it, but he couldn’t break the puzzle to open it, and now Dumbledore had dropped a new secret on them, Ron thought in dismay.

“Dumbledore’s played an awful dicey game here with his secrets,” Ron grumbled. “Why not tell you everything we needed to know? What’s with all these games? If Snape was telling the truth and Dumbledore was already dying, why not just spill it all? I’m beginning to think he’d gone totally barmy in the end.”

“I’ve been feeling like that myself,” Harry agreed, sighing in frustration. “I’ve got answers in the form of more riddles, and I don’t have a Pensieve. How am I supposed to view these memories? Dumbledore was the only one I knew who had one, and it’s not as if he left me that in his will. He died, expecting me, and maybe Snape, too, to carry on without giving us enough information to understand what we’re supposed to do. If Snape wasn’t trying to get information out of me for Tom, then he wanted it for himself. I can certainly understand the frustration of only knowing part of the damn story. Only half of the truth,” he said, the anger reappearing in his voice again. “It’s what sent me into the forest to meet him. To finally get some answers out of somebody. Instead, I have this.”

“Well, what do you think it is? What did he want you to know right before you go after You Know Who? I think it must be a spell or something to kill him, but Hermione doesn’t think so.”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted.

“I don’t either,” Harry agreed. “He never once tried to teach me any dueling techniques during our meetings, no advanced defense against the dark arts lessons. He always just told me that the power I had to beat him with was love, but somehow, I don’t think he meant for us to hug it out,” Harry said sarcastically.

Ron grinned at the absurdity of that image. He couldn’t help himself.

“Although, if it was a spell or something like that, if it was information, maybe, on how to kill him, he may not have wanted me to have it too soon in case Tom read my mind. Dumbledore knew I was crap at Occlumency.”

“But that really doesn’t make sense either. If he was worried that You Know Who would rummage around in your mind, then why tell you about the Horcruxes? If he found out we were searching for them, he’d just move them or make more, wouldn’t he?” Hermione asked.

“Well, if Dumbledore knew he was dying, he had to tell Harry about the Horcruxes,” Ron reasoned.

“That’s true,” she agreed.

“The memory is probably nothing more than the answer to this riddle,” Harry theorized, shaking the Snitch. “He probably gave me the Snitch and Snape the answer on how to open it. The timing is about right. _I open at the close_ ,” Harry mused. “If it means at the end, then it could be.”

“Yes, I suppose it could be,” Hermione conceded. “But if the resurrection stone truly is inside it, as you believe, what did Dumbledore think you’re supposed to do with it? If he really meant for you to combine the Hallows, why not just give it to you? Why wait _until the close_?” she asked. “And why didn’t he tell you about the Hallows when he told you about the Horcruxes?”

“Aaarrgg,” Harry growled. “I don’t know, do I? And it’s not as if I can bloody well go to Hogwarts and ask to borrow the Pensieve.” He glared at the vial in frustration. “Just walk right up the front steps and knock on the door,” he said with a derisive snort.

Ron smiled again at the new scene forming in his mind. _Hullo_ , he thought, _mind if we come in?_

“Hermione, can you put an unbreakable charm on this?” Harry asked her, holding the vial of memories out to her.

“Yes, of course.” Pulling out her wand, she took it from him.

“I have no choice except to hold onto that and keep it safe until I can find a way to view it,” he told them with a sigh.

Hermione performed the spell, and the vial went briefly opaque before returning to normal. Then she handed it back to Harry. Replacing it and the Snitch back into his mokeskin pouch, he relaxed back against the couch.

They skipped lunch and had an early dinner instead, choosing to actually make their way down to the kitchen and eat there for the first time since they arrived. And when they headed to bed that night, Harry really did take the middle. It was a bit tense when they’d all lain down to sleep. He and Hermione had waited for Harry to crawl into bed first, to see where he would sleep before sliding into bed beside him, like bookends. 

Ron lay on his back with one arm under his head and his leg hanging off the side. He was scooted to the very edge of the mattress so that he wasn’t pressed up against Harry. Harry, too, seemed to be trying to take up the least amount of space possible. 

This was nuts. Ron tried to force himself to sleep, but he kept thinking about their meeting with Snape and about the contents of the vial of memories. Both Harry and Hermione believed Snape was really working for Dumbledore, but Ron still wasn’t sure. He hated the man. He didn’t think Snape had ever done anything that wasn’t self-serving. Snape was cruel and nasty, and he enjoyed it. Ron knew it. He knew Snape enjoyed what he did to Harry, at the very least. Ron could see it in his black eyes while he stood next to him, close enough to touch the greasy bastard if he’d stretched out his arm. If Harry and Hermione would have stood as close to Snape as he had, he bet they wouldn’t be so sure, either.

That’s what was probably in those memories he gave Harry, he suddenly decided, nearly sitting up on the bed. Snape’s own memory of what he did to Harry. He was probably tossing off somewhere right now at the idea of Harry viewing his memory of it, letting Harry see how much he enjoyed it, and fantasizing about doing it to him all over again. Ron’s blood was boiling at the thought, seething with anger at the image that was now burned into his brain of what that bastard had forced Harry to do to him.

There was no way he could have, no way Ron would have let Snape stick his cock in his mouth, unless it was to bite it clean off. The idea of it made him feel sick. Then he remembered how Snape had gotten Harry to do it, remembered that he’d threatened to do it to Hermione. The rage that came over Ron then was like a red film covering his eyes. He was actually panting, trying not to growl into the darkness as his hands and jaw clenched. He could feel his chest tightening, suppressing the roar of hatred that wanted to burst out of him. 

Harry may not have been able to kill Snape in cold blood, but Ron didn’t have the same misgivings, the same compunction. If he ever had the chance, if he ever saw the fucking pervert’s greasy head again, he’d kill him without hesitation, but not before cutting off Snape’s dick and shoving it into his own mouth first, he thought savagely.

That would be justice, he thought with satisfaction. That would be the retribution Snape deserved. Unclenching his hands at that image of Snape getting his due, Ron forced himself to relax back onto the bed.

Then with a jolt, he remembered that Bellatrix had wanted to force Harry to do that to him after she’d made him rape Hermione. She’d said she was going to make Harry show him what Snape had taught him. Ron lay there in shock at the realization. He hadn’t remembered her words until just now. He’d still been reeling at what Harry had done to Hermione. Then right after that, all hell broke loose. He was under the Cruciatus again, screaming in agony; so that what came between was just now filtering back into his brain. 

A new picture came to his mind then, and he shuddered with fresh revulsion. Revulsion with himself, though, because it didn’t make his skin crawl like it should have. He actually wondered what it would be like, and then burned with shame at his ruminations. 

Would Harry have done it, he wondered? Of course, he already knew the answer. He would, Ron knew with certainty, if it delayed Bellatrix killing them. But would he have actually gotten hard from it? Could he have come if Harry had done that to him? Did it make him a pervert for wondering? Did it make him as bad as the Death Eaters? As bad as Snape?

Ron lay there a very long time, until Harry and Hermione had both fallen asleep, until Harry turned over and curled up on his side, facing Hermione. He lay there despising Snape and Bellatrix even more for making him think these thoughts, for putting these images in his head. 

He didn’t know how he’d managed to empty his brain of the vivid images of Harry and Snape in the dungeons with Lucius and Avery watching. Images of Harry kneeling in front of him, then instead, while he stood chained to the wall, with their own audience of jeering Death Eaters. And then of himself killing Snape with his bare hands, all swirling around in his mind. Eventually he did, but it wasn’t until the very early hours of morning. And when he finally slept, it was fitfully, trying even harder not to touch Harry.

~ . ~


	22. Coming Clean

Hermione woke in the morning feeling disoriented. She was on the outside edge facing the window, Harry’s normal spot. It took her a moment to figure out how she got there. It was still fairly early in the morning, judging from the quality of the light in the room, and she could hear Ron snoring pretty loudly from the other side of the bed. Rubbing at her eyes, she yawned, stretching hard enough to make her back pop. Then she rolled over. She found Harry laying wide awake, stretched out on his back with both hands under his head, just looking up at the ceiling. Staring at him in mild surprise for a moment, she finally spoke, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” he replied.

“Did you sleep all right?” she asked quietly and somewhat tentatively after a moment when he hadn’t even turned to look at her, unsure of what mood she might find him in this morning.

“It was fine,” he said noncommittally, still contemplating the ceiling, which didn’t assuage her feelings of trepidation. “I can sleep pretty much anywhere, though. I slept in a cupboard until I was eleven and got my Hogwarts letter. Then the Dursley's moved me to Dudley’s second bedroom out of fear, I think. Did you know my letter actually said, ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs’?” he asked her, but didn’t wait for a response. Not that she could have given one anyway; she was temporarily speechless at his unexpected and uncharacteristic openness. “The problem with this spot isn’t getting to sleep, or staying asleep,” he explained, matter-of-factly. “It’s if you wake up first.”

“I take it you’ve been awake a while?” she finally asked with a little smile, which she had to cover with her hand when it turned into a huge yawn. 

He seemed to be in a very quirky mood today, she thought with some relief. Harry almost never talked about his life at his aunt and uncle’s house, and he certainly wasn’t this forthcoming about his treatment there. It was as if he was simply thinking out loud and forgot she was there. It made her sad that he was so apathetic at how poorly he was treated by his family, though. It looked as if they couldn’t spare anything for him except the barest necessities. She knew he’d been treated horribly there, but it always surprised her to hear or see the depth of it. How could anyone care so little for him? How he care so very much for everyone else after that upbringing?

“A bit, yeah,” he answered, nodding his head, which was still cushioned by his hands and still not looking at her, “but I’ve been asleep for several days. I think I’ve had all the rest I can stand for a while.”

His voice still had that hoarse, gravelly quality to it. It was like Harry’s, but not quite. She wondered if it would always be so from now on. It wasn’t bad, exactly. Actually, it sounded kind of interesting. It was a constant reminder, though, of what their capture had cost him, evidence of how much pain he’d had to endure to cause so much damage to his vocal cords. It wasn’t as if he’d had a beautiful singing voice, and his hopes for a musical career after this war had been ruined, or anything. But it certainly didn’t carry the same strength now, and it was always in danger of failing him if he used it too much. It was just one more scar to add to the long list she’d started keeping track of in her mind. This scar she could only hear and not see, however, like the ones in his mind that she only heard in their whisperings in the dark, or when they hemorrhaged, bleeding out into terrified nightmares. The ones she saw in his eyes in unguarded moments, or like now, when he was telling his secrets to the ceiling in the early morning, as if someone had dripped Veritaserum in his mouth while he was sleeping. 

“I really do feel much better, though. It’s almost as if I didn’t know how bad I was still hurting until it stopped, like I’d just gotten used to it. I think I may owe Madame Pomfrey another box of chocolates, but Christ, that potion was horrible. I’d still refuse to take it again and fight like hell if she tried to make me,” he said vehemently.

Hermione didn’t say anything. She wasn’t eager to remind him any further of the row he had yesterday morning with her, with the healer, and then Ron, but at the same time she felt like she needed to confess her own role.

The only person in the house who hadn’t yelled at, or been yelled at by Harry yesterday, was Dobby, she realized in dismay. But his mood still appeared too volatile for her to step willingly into that conversation just yet, and she wasn’t quite ready to test it. She still wasn’t sure how to react to him this morning.

He’d apparently been awake for a while, although he didn’t look to be in any hurry to get up, and so she lay there watching him staring at the ceiling, listening to his vocalized musings. Waiting to see if he would speak again, she contented herself for a moment to simply watch his chest rise and fall, to watch his eyelashes brush against his cheeks when he blinked, and to watch his Adam’s apple slide the length of his throat when he swallowed. 

He needed a shave again. His chin and neck were coarse with stubble, the dark hair showing up so clearly against his fair complexion even after a single day. She wanted to touch it, to run her thumb along his jawbone and feel the hairs scratch against her skin, to hear the rasping sound she knew it would make. She curled her fingers into her palms instead to try and control the itching desire that had her fingers tingling to test its texture. Squeezing her hands, her fingernails leaving indentions in her palm, she took a deep breath, trying to quash the impulse to reach out to him.

“You know, this is the way we slept that first night together in this bed,” she told him, breaking the silence and her intense examination of his features.

Finally, he turned his head slightly to look at her. 

“Ron had fallen asleep on the bed with you, and I was trying to keep your fever down. It kept rising. I stood here next to you, laying cold rags all over you to bring it down, but it just kept climbing. Then you started having a seizure. You were choking and thrashing, boiling with fever. I panicked. I started screaming for Ron to help me. He took one look at you and grabbed you up off the bed to get you in the tub.” She paused then, trying to swallow down the remembered fear of that night before she could continue. “I froze, Harry. I didn’t know what to do when you started convulsing, but Ron did, even though he was only half awake. He held you in the tub until your temperature came down. You did more wandless magic, but you were so weak already, you couldn’t fend him off. Once he was sure it was over, he picked you up out of the bath and laid you back down on the bed, in the middle, where you are now. Then he just fell down beside you. Without a word, he just went right back to sleep.” Her voice still held the note of surprise and incredulity at the remembered images. “So, once I recovered from my shock and could move again, I slid in next to you on this side and fell asleep, too. Madame Pomfrey came in the next morning and startled me right off the bed.” She felt the heat creeping into her cheeks at the memory, at the image of Ron and Harry exposed on the bed together when she’d pulled the blanket off with her.

“Ron told me,” he finally said when she’d finished. “Well, some of it. He didn’t say anything about the magic. Did I hurt him, or you?”

“He had blisters on his hands the next morning, but Madame Pomfrey fixed that without any trouble,” she reassured him when he’d winced. “Ron got you calmed down pretty fast, actually. I think you realized who he was and stopped fighting.”

“I don’t remember any of that happening.”

“No, you wouldn’t. It was several more days before you really regained consciousness,” she replied, and then hesitated before speaking more quietly. “We thought for a while… right after we found you… Harry, you’d just lost so much blood, and you were so badly beaten.”

She remembered the horror of finding him in the bathroom, of the agonizing wait for Madame Pomfrey to arrive after they’d dragged him onto the bed. The still vivid memories flooded into her, and she shuddered. She knew the images of that terrible day would be burned in her memory forever, recalled as vividly as if it happened only moments before. The echo of the battle in the corridor, which she knew now was Snape and Bellatrix, ready to begin if she only closed her eyes and listened for it, heralding the start of the worst day of her life. 

“Then I think you had a vision, maybe, when You Know Who came back and you saw what he did to Mr. Malfoy… what you told Snape. It went on for so long. I was sure he was killing you, and I couldn’t make it stop. It was so awful.”

“Yes, it was. That I remember,” he said ruefully. “I haven’t gotten anything from him since then, though. Not so much as a twinge in my scar. Not that I can recall, at least.”

“Maybe you’re getting better at Occlumency. You said you successfully fought off Snape when he tried to get into your mind. Maybe you’re holding off He Who Must Not Be Named, too,” she suggested hopefully.

“Maybe,” Harry responded, though he sounded dubious. 

Ron snorted loudly. Then he rolled over to face them before throwing an arm over Harry’s chest. After a moment of rooting around on his pillow to get comfortable again, he began to snore once more. Hermione grinned, trying to stifle a giggle as Harry’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes, just like that. That’s exactly how he fell asleep that first night,” she told him in amusement.

“Good lord, he’s dead to the world.” Harry said as he stared at Ron, though he made no move to remove Ron’s arm draped across his chest. “He must’ve slept like crap last night.”  

Reaching up, Hermione stroked Ron’s freckled limb affectionately as she watched him sleeping. She ran her fingers over his hand curled into a loose fist on Harry’s chest while Harry’s eyes tracked her progress. 

Ron had big hands, strong hands, so much larger than hers. Harry’s weren’t as big but the fingers were longer than Ron’s, finer and more tapered at the ends. Piano hands, her mother would have called them. But even his hands weren’t free of scars. She could see the words Umbridge had forced him to carve into his skin turn white, sitting next to him on the couch when he’d started squeezing the ball the minute they heard Ron and his family on the stairs the day of the party, _I must not tell lies_ pulsing at her with every nervous compression.

“You know, he didn’t mean a lot of the things he said to you yesterday,” she whispered as she continued to stroke Ron’s arm, not looking at Harry. “He said he’d gotten out of the dungeons unscathed, but I don’t think that’s true. Sometimes I think it hurts worse to watch someone you love suffering than it is to actually be suffering yourself. Do you know what I mean? It’s like survivor’s guilt. Sometimes I feel like he actually got the worst of it.” She pulled her hand back into her chest then and stared up at Harry. “He’s been really great, you know. We lived in fear those first few days. Fear that they would come and find us, fear that you would leave us, fear that he would attack your mind again.”

Harry said nothing, looking down at Ron’s arm again for a minute before he nodded. Then he slid an arm out from under his head and turned Ron’s hand over to examine his palm, looking for the injuries he’d caused him. He ran a thumb over the skin, but it was smooth, the blisters long since healed. 

Grunting a bit in protest, Ron muttered incoherently before pulling his hand out of Harry’s grip and curling it back against his own body. Then he went right back to snoring.

“I instigated the sex with him, you know. He never would have… you know that,” she suddenly confessed then. Going red, and wondering if she’d also been given Veritaserum unknowingly while she slept. “So this whole thing is really my fault. Being in this room, on this bed with you, it didn’t feel… wrong to me. I’m sorry, Harry. If you really want Ron and me to leave, we will. You don’t have to sleep in the middle. We can do something else. We can transfigure the bed into three singles and set the room up like a mini dormitory, or something. I bet I can even conjure some Gryffindor hangings, if it would help,” she offered with a tiny nervous hiccup of laughter.

“That would be kind of cool, actually,” he said in amusement, a smile curling his lips at the image. “I think Sirius would’ve liked that. Having a Gryffindor dormitory spring up in the middle of his parents’ house would’ve been a great practical joke to him.”

“I don’t want to be separated from you, Harry. I don’t want to leave you,” she told him, turning serious again. “It’s more than just being afraid that something will happen to you. We just want to be close to you, Ron and me. Those days in the dungeons, they changed all of us. You said you weren’t the same person anymore, you said you were afraid of what you were becoming. I’m afraid, too. I think we were all changed in there, and we’re trying to figure out how to fit our new selves back together again, trying to reshape the pieces to fit in the puzzle of our friendship. All the while, those relationships are being redefined, too. I don’t want it to be the two of us and you. I don’t want us to be split like that,” she said almost pleadingly.

“You make us sound like Hagrid’s pet Fluffy, or something. Like some three-headed Hydra, as if all of us are attached to the same body. But we’re not. We’re three separate people, Hermione.”

“I know that, Harry, but in a way, we are. You remember what it was like when Ron left?  We carried on, but it wasn’t the same. Not for me, anyway. It felt like a mortal wound, a rending apart of my body when he left. It was the same when I watched you lying on this bed so close to death. That same aching, as if a part of me were dying, too, like a harrowing of my soul. Do you understand what I mean? I would be lost without either of you. It would be a permanently crippling blow, a devastation of my whole world. Doesn’t it feel that way to you, too?”

He looked away from her then, staring back up at the ceiling while she waited for his response, her whole body tensed on the bed.

“Yes,” he answered simply, although he looked deeply troubled by the admission. 

Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes then, and she began to rub his arm as she’d grown accustomed to doing to calm him. Stroking it like she had Ron’s earlier while they both relaxed back onto the bed, soothing him in the same way that woke him the other night and caused the huge fight between them. She watched him in the growing light, listening to Ron’s continued snores and their own quiet breathing.

“What does it feel like… when you’re in love?” he asked her very quietly, his eyes still closed.

“You love Ginny, Harry. You know how—”

“That’s not what I meant,” he interrupted, his cheeks flushing red. “Never mind I asked… It’s really none of my business.”

She felt herself going a little red then, too, suddenly hot all over when she understood his inquiry. Staring at him, Hermione waited for him to look back at her, but he wouldn’t open his eyes. So she scooted next to him to rest her head on his chest, heartbroken for him again. 

“I don’t know, Harry,” she told him honestly. “It feels like… like dancing, or flying, maybe, I guess, if I’m describing it for you. It makes me want to throw my head back and laugh or shout out loud, you know? Like when you were a small child on a swing, and you’d swing as high as you could and then lean back and straighten your legs, swooping through the air with your eyes closed and the wind blowing your hair.” She felt breathless, the slight ache of desire beginning to form in her. “When his body’s so warm next to mine it feels like a luxury. The touch of his hands sends that tingling feeling all through me, giving me goose bumps, making my toes curl, making my body flush. When we’re together like that, we’re in our own world, and I never want it to end. Like a dream that I never want to wake from. I never want to come back to reality,” she confessed. “It feels like that, Harry.”

They lay silently for a few minutes, both lost in their own reflections while she fought the urge again to reach up and run her hands over his stubbled chin or press herself more firmly against him. She needed to calm the desire that had sprung up in her from the images she’d conjured describing their lovemaking. Working to get control of her rapidly beating heart, she concentrated on slowing her breathing.

“Thank you,” he said thickly in a whisper. Then he sniffled, as if he’d been crying, though if he had, he’d been completely silent. It made her want to cry, too. 

She could feel her eyes stinging, desperately sad for him, wanting so badly to comfort him. “Why won’t you let Ginny in, Harry?” she asked. “I know how you feel about her. She feels the same about you. Why are you denying yourself that chance to be happy?”

“She doesn’t know,” he whispered. “She doesn’t know what I did.”

“And no one will ever tell her, Harry. Ron and I will never tell anyone what we were all forced to do there to survive. You saved our lives, and that’s the end of it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“ _I_ will know. I’ll always know what they did to me and what I did to you. I can’t lie to her. What kind of relationship can we have if I’m keeping horrible secrets from her?” he asked, sounding anguished. “How can she love me if she doesn’t know the truth about me? Even if you can forgive me, I can’t forgive myself. She deserves better than me. I’ll only corrupt her, too.”

Hermione sat up on her elbow, leaning over to look down on him then. Giving in to the urge finally to touch his face, she ran her hand along his jaw to turn his head to her, forcing him to look at her. “What you did was sacrifice yourself for us, Harry. You gave yourself up to them to protect us. There’s absolutely nothing to forgive. Stop punishing yourself for it,” she said, glaring at him.

“I think I’d like to get up now,” he replied, trying to force the conversation closed. “I need the bathroom.”

“Don’t leave, Harry,” she pleaded. “Please don’t run away.”

“Boy, you and Ron sure think a lot of me, don’t you?” he asked angrily. “You think I’m a coward, too, do you?”

“Of course not! Stop trying to pick a fight with me,” she shot back, her voice rising in anger. “You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known, but you want to think the worst of yourself, and I’m not going to let you. We’ve been having a beautiful morning. Stop trying to ruin it. I’ll shut up about Ginny.”

He stared at her in some surprise before he finally gave a soft snort and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he conceded, half annoyed, half amused. “I’m sorry. You can stop scowling at me, all right? I don’t want to fight with you this morning.”

Her raised voice must have disturbed Ron because he grunted in frustration and shifted again, burrowing closer to Harry so that he was now sandwiched between them. Then Ron’s hand snaked onto Harry’s belly, sliding upwards as Harry’s eyes widened again, his hands still raised in mock surrender. 

Hermione’s face broke into a grin at the look on Harry’s face, the absurdity of the scene too much for her to hold onto her irritation with him.

“Jesus! He wasn’t lying about having horny hands,” he choked out. “I really do need to get up before this goes any further. Otherwise, we’ll have to tell his parents we’ve started dating now.  I don’t think I need a demonstration of what you described.” Slapping a hand over Ron’s, Harry flattened it against him to stop its wandering progress up his stomach. “I need to get off this bed before I start feeling all tingly and my toes start curling.” He smirked, making her go red at hearing him speak her own words back at her.

“Oh, shut up,” she huffed, rolling away from him and sliding off the bed. 

Hermione watched then as Harry tried to extricate himself from Ron’s limbs without waking him, biting down on her lips to keep from laughing as Ron had now thrown a leg over Harry’s, making it more difficult. Harry might not be feeling tingly, she thought, but he was definitely flushed trying to get out from under Ron. When he’d managed to fight off Ron and crawl off the bed, Harry glared at her amused expression a minute before turning and marching into the bathroom. 

Chuckling, she looked back at Ron, who had pulled a pillow to him then, snuggling up to it in Harry’s absence. It made her think of the two of them on the bed together again when Madame Pomfrey had come in, and then of them hugging yesterday morning with Harry gripping the back of Ron’s neck, his mouth near Ron’s ear. She felt warm all over at the intimacy of the image and at the remembered expression on Ron’s face when Harry had pulled away. Maybe it wasn’t just her that was having conflicting feelings about Harry anymore, she thought hopefully. 

She was still standing there, not having moved from the spot, when Harry returned from the bathroom. He came over to stand next to her, looking at Ron, too, for a minute and then at her.

“I do think we need to show a little Gryffindor love in this Slytherin house,” he announced as he stared around the room. “Let’s do it. Besides, it will freak Ron out when he wakes up. The grabby git.”

Stepping behind her, he collected their wands from the side table, handing hers over. She grinned up at him, enjoying the quirky playful mood he was in today. Then they both raised their wands. They giggled like children as they worked, and when they were finished, three single four-poster beds stood side by side against the wall, the two side tables between them, replicas of their beds at Hogwarts down to the blankets and the curtains. It was a little cramped in the room now, but it looked wonderful. It really did remind her of Hogwarts again. Hermione missed being there so badly sometimes. 

Ron had slept through the whole thing, which was fantastic. He lay on the bed closest to the door, still snoring happily, oblivious to the transformation.

“This looks brilliant,” Harry told her, appearing delighted with their spell work. “I can’t wait to see his reaction.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, pleased that it had been her suggestion.

“Is this what the girls’ dormitories look like as well? I never saw your rooms since boys aren’t allowed in there. Do you remember when Ron tried that one time?” he asked wistfully, sounding nostalgic.

“It’s mostly the same, but with less Quidditch posters. Well, except for Ginny’s room. And there were certainly no pictures of Muggle girls in bikinis decorating the place,” she replied, pointing to the numerous pictures Sirius had affixed to his walls with permanent sticking charms. “Of course, you were a lot more likely to find a real scantily clad girl wandering around. Honestly, some girls had no modesty. Romilda Vane, for instance, and Ginny as well, really,” she added after thoughtful consideration. “She was always pretty comfortable in her own skin.”

“Oh, come on! That’s not even fair,” Harry whined petulantly.

“There were more _Witch Weekly’s_ lying around, you know. And it was a bit neater, of course, but otherwise, it’s pretty much the same,” she continued with a laugh. “And yes, I think everyone remembers when Ron tried to get upstairs. The fool,” she said with great affection.

“You should have seen the look on his face when he came sliding back down the stairwell on his back. I can’t even remember now why he was so hell bent on getting up there.” He chuckled at the memory, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she cried suddenly, throwing her arms around him and kissing him full on the mouth. “You’re my best friend,” she told him when she pulled back, her hands still linked behind his head. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

He looked momentarily stunned, frozen from shock, with one hand pressed between her shoulder blades and the other in the small of her back. Sliding his hands away from her then, he took a nervous step back.

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sure it’s only temporary. I’m just feeling momentarily euphoric at the absence of pain. I feel like I’ve just been cut loose from my anchor.”

“I’ll take whatever I can get.”  She smiled up at him again, trying to break the awkward tension she’d created. Then she turned to look at Ron again. “I don’t think he’s waking up anytime soon. I’m going downstairs to get a shower.”

“I think I’ll join you.” 

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he turned crimson immediately. 

“I meant up here… I didn’t mean…” he stuttered, looking mortified.

“I knew what you meant,” she responded with a laugh, grabbing up her bag and tossing it to him. “Here, get what you need out of it.”

She didn’t have the heart to take the mickey out of him any longer. God, it was so beautiful to see him doing anything as normal as being embarrassed in front of a girl, though. It made her want to start crying again as she watched him rummaging nervously in her bag for his things, still deeply red in the cheeks.

When she got out of the shower, Harry was downstairs alone in the drawing room, having come down the stairs on his own, apparently. His chin was once again shaved smooth, which was a shame, she decided. She liked him looking a bit roguish. A little stubble with that messy too-long hair really suited him, in her opinion. It gave him a bit of a devil-may-care look. 

“Ron’s still asleep?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I didn’t want to wake him.”

“You could have waited for me. I would’ve helped you down.”

“I’m fine, really. I can manage on my own now.”

It was late in the morning and long after they’d returned to the drawing room after their breakfast before Ron finally made an appearance. Having had another fit of madness, she and Harry had transfigured it into as close a replica of the Gryffindor common room as possible, since they’d missed Ron’s reaction to the bedroom. 

He looked gob smacked when he came into the room, his mouth falling open as he stared around. “This is bloody fantastic!” he said in awe. “What the hell has gotten into you two?” He stared between their identically grinning faces for a moment before his eyes began taking in the room again, landing on different transformed features on by one.

“We were beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake up, Ron,” she teased. “It’s almost lunch time.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his eyes darting nervously to Harry for a moment. “I had some trouble getting to sleep.”

“Well, you didn’t have any trouble staying asleep this morning. I don’t think anything could have woken you,” Harry informed him.

“Right, well, like I said, I had a bit of trouble. So, um…Why did you two decide to turn the bedroom into a dormitory again?”

“Well, after this morning, I decided it wasn’t safe for me to sleep next to you either,” Harry answered.

“Huh?” Ron asked in confusion. “What are you on about?”

“You had your damn hands all over me! The next time I let you grope me like that, I’d better at least get dinner or something first. I’m not some trollop, you know,” Harry replied in mock indignation. 

Hermione couldn’t contain her laughter at the look of astonishment on Ron’s face, with his mouth hanging open again in stunned surprise. 

“Just because I went to bed with you, doesn’t mean you can take whatever liberties you like with my body, you rogue.”

“Piss off,” Ron muttered finally.

Harry started laughing then, too.

“Someone’s in a better mood this morning,” Ron said, looking cross himself. “I’m starving. I’m going down to the kitchen to see if I can have some of whatever it is you two have been into this morning.” Then he turned on his heel, the back of his ears and neck going red as he marched to the doorway.

“It’s nearly lunch, Ron, why don’t you just wait,” she called after him, but he just waved her off on his way out of the room.

He was only gone about twenty minutes before he came walking back in, carrying a stack of toast and a couple of pieces of bacon in one hand, and a glass of orange juice in the other. Plopping down in one of the transfigured armchairs, he began to eat, staring around the room, taking in the details more closely.

“We are going to leave it like this, right?” he asked, waving around a half-eaten piece of toast.

“I dunno why not,” Harry answered. “I like the looks of it a lot better this way.”

“Me, too, but can you imagine the shrieking that portrait of Sirius’ mum would make if she saw what it looked like in here?” Ron asked.

“I hadn’t considered that,” Hermione said, staring quickly around the room. “It’s a good thing there aren’t any other portraits in here that she could come and visit. I bet we’d never get her to shut up.”

“Oh, my, God!” Harry yelled suddenly, jumping to his feet, surprising Ron and her both into silence. “The portrait!” His eyes shone with excitement as he stared at them. “Dobby can get into Hogwarts!”

“Yeah… so?” Ron questioned slowly, narrowing his eyes in confusion at Harry’s enthusiastic statement of the obvious.

“Phineas couldn’t bring Dumbledore from Hogwarts into the other portrait we took, but Dobby can get Dumbledore’s portrait for us, and bring it here,” he explained when it was clear from their expressions that they had no idea what he was on about. “Then we could talk to Dumbledore and get all the answers we need. Or, if the portraits can’t be removed from the walls, or something, he could bring us the Pensieve. Dobby,” he called before either of them could say anything.

The little elf popped into the room. “What’s the matter, Harry Potter, sir?” Dobby asked, looking around the room in panic, searching for the source of whatever had Harry yelling.

“Nothing, Dobby, everything’s fine,” Harry assured him quickly, kneeling down to the elf. “Listen, do you think you can do me another huge favor?”

“Anything, Harry Potter. Dobby would do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do.” 

He stared up at Harry with adoration as she and Ron scooted to the edges of their chairs.

“Great!  That’s great, Dobby,” Harry said eagerly. “I need you to bring me something from Hogwarts,” he started, but Dobby’s ears had already begun to droop. “Can you get into the Headmaster’s office?”

“Dobby can, sir, yes, but he cannot takes things from Hogwarts. House elves isn’t being able to steal, even for their masters.”

“I don’t want you to steal anything, Dobby,” he replied. “I just need to borrow something. I need Dumbledore’s portrait. You can put it back once we’ve finished.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dobby apologized, near tears. “Objects that belongs to Hogwarts is being magically protected. Dobby cannot takes them from the castle without permission.” He looked miserable at the disappointment on Harry’s face.

“Okay, what about the Pensieve? It belonged to Dumbledore, not Hogwarts. Can you bring that?” he asked, looking hopeful again.

“No, sir,” Dobby answered, shaking his head.

“Harry, almost all of Dumbledore’s possessions were left to Hogwarts. Dobby won’t be able to bring the Pensieve either,” she told him. “It belongs to Hogwarts now.”

“Damn it!” Harry growled in frustration, causing Dobby’s enormous eyes to spill over into tears, and he began to sob uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, Dobby. It’s all right, really,” Harry apologized, grabbing Dobby by the arms to ward off any attempts at self-flagellation by the elf. “I’m not angry with you. I just got my hopes up is all,” he reassured the elf, looking pained at having caused Dobby so much distress. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I asked you. Okay?”

“Dobby would do it if he could, sir,” he said, sniffling. 

“I know,” Harry soothed. “I know you would. It’s all right.”

Harry fell heavily back into his chair when he’d finally calmed Dobby down, letting the look of deep disappointment show on his face at having his hopes dashed once Dobby returned to the kitchen. 

Dobby had left with a determined gleam in his eye, making Hermione feel sure that lunch, and possibly dinner, would consist of all of Harry’s favorites in an attempt by the elf to please him. She could predict with as much certainty as if she were Trelawney herself that a treacle tart would appear in their very near future. Her inner eye was pretty clear on that without even having to consult her tea leaves or her star chart. 

“I was so sure for a moment there that I had the solution,” Harry told them bitterly, running a hand through his hair in frustration before slamming a fist down on the arm of the chair.

“It was a good idea,” Ron said fairly.

“Well, I think we should put off trying to find out what’s in those memories for the time being. Dumbledore didn’t want you to have the information just yet anyway. I think we need to get back to the tasks he did clearly set out for you, Harry,” she told him. “We need to stop speculating on what he might have wanted you to know and concentrate on what we know he asked you to do. The Horcruxes should be the only thing we’re concerned with right now.”

“Well, seeing as I can’t do much about the memories right now anyway, I guess I have to agree,” Harry conceded.

“Good, because I’ve been thinking, and I believe I might know where another Horcrux is,” she announced. “Or at least who has it.”

“Who?” Ron asked in amazement.

She stared at Harry, worried for his reaction, afraid she might plunge him back into blackness, but she had to do it.  She’d been holding off for some time, but she was almost sure of it, and she couldn’t wait any longer. Hermione hoped against hope that Harry’s good mood this morning would be enough to counteract the impact of her next words.

“Bellatrix,” she said bracingly. “I think Bellatrix Lestrange has one.”

~ . ~


	23. Facing Fears

_“Bellatrix,” she said bracingly. “I think Bellatrix Lestrange has one.”_

“You’ve kept that quiet!” Ron said loudly in astonished disbelief, staring openly at her, but she only had eyes for Harry. 

Hermione watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. He’d gone briefly white, gripping the arms of his chair before he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply. He looked shocked at hearing her name spoken out loud — the same reaction most people gave when Harry boldly spoke Voldemort’s name — but not at her revelation, she thought. She narrowed her gaze.

“You already think so, too, don’t you?” she asked quietly. 

Harry opened his eyes, staring at her, searching her face for a moment before he relaxed his grip on the chair arms. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

“What the hell?” Ron yelped, astonished.

“I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t think… I couldn’t talk about it yet,” he explained, looking fearful.

“I understand, Harry,” she said sympathetically. “It’s why I haven’t brought it up either.  If we’re wrong… I’m not keen on tangling with her again either.”  She shuddered at the idea. “It’s just about the last thing in the world I want to do,” she told them, and she meant it. Facing Bellatrix again was almost as fearsome as facing You Know Who himself. The woman was completely and utterly deranged, capable of anything and wholly without conscience, a true sociopath, incapable of empathy or remorse.

“Uh… when did we decide that Bellatrix had a Horcrux?” Ron asked in confused irritation.

Harry flinched again at hearing her name.

“She said some things to Harry… right after she’d made him…” Her voice trailed off as the images from that day flooded her mind again. She was unable to say out loud what Harry was forced to do to her, to articulate the words. Hermione could not say “Harry raped me.” She couldn’t put the words together in a sentence. She could say “after the rape,” or “when I was raped,” maybe, but she couldn’t say to him, “You raped me.” She simply could not condemn him for that crime, even if, technically, he was guilty of it, because it certainly wasn’t a voluntary act on either of their parts. Saying the word out loud made her flinch, like saying Voldemort for Ron, or Bellatrix for Harry. It had become her taboo. The sound of the word assaulted her senses when it was spoken. It startled her, like having the lights thrown on in the middle of the night. It made her feel queasy, sending a swooping sensation in her stomach as if she’d missed a step going downstairs, that momentary feeling of panic. She’d like to strike it from their vocabulary altogether, and then maybe she could get past it, maybe they all could. The fear, the pain and the terror of that day was still so vivid for all of them, always on the periphery of their minds, waiting to seep into their thoughts. 

They’d all gone pale, sitting there in their make-believe common room, discussing these horrible things. This was the first time they’d all spoken of the events of that day. They’d briefly skirted it, or tentatively discussed what happened before or after, but not an open discussion of those moments of their lives that changed everything between them forever. She was no longer worried about plunging Harry back into darkness with their discussion. Now she feared they’d all leap into the black abyss.

“Right before she planted her foot in my face,” Harry said bitterly, picking up the thread of her explanation and trying himself to pinpoint the time while still avoiding saying what happened before.

“When she broke your nose?” Ron asked, playing along with their game now, too, it appeared.

“Yes, my nose and my jaw,” he said thoughtfully, going quiet a minute as he ran his fingers along his jawbone at the memory. “You know, I’ve had my nose broken before. I’m not saying it feels great, or anything, but it just sits there in the middle of your face. It throbs and all, of course, but having your jaw broken? Fuck that hurts,” he told them. “It still aches when I chew sometimes, and I can hear it popping if I open it too wide, like it’s permanently out of alignment now, or something.”

He still spoke with that same uncharacteristic openness from this morning, musing out loud again as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Maybe he didn’t, she considered. Maybe Harry was completely unaware that his thoughts were being broadcast to the room. It unnerved her, made her worry for his state of mind. He was normally so private. 

“Your nose was pouring blood. I didn’t know your jaw was even broken until Madame Pomfrey told us. Your whole face was swollen something awful the next day, though,” Ron said, wincing, his face screwed up in sympathy. “She’d torn your lip to shreds, too,” he added.

Then his morbid curiosity appeared to have taken over, derailing their talk of Horcruxes. The need to understand the profundity of what Harry went through when they took him away from them every day in the dungeons overriding all else. Wanting more images to agonize over, to beat himself up with, more guilt to heap on himself, she thought.  

“Who broke your ribs?” he asked, sounding dangerous. 

He’d told her about the list in Harry’s journal, the names of the Death Eaters he’d written, like a revenge list, but she hadn’t seen it for herself. It seemed Ron wanted to know the details of the crimes committed against Harry by each of the people on that list, to gauge the amount of outrage and fury he should feel towards each of them for what they had inflicted on Harry, creating his own hierarchy for revenge, knowing the depths of the acts he had to avenge.

“Rabastan cracked one or two of them first, I think, judging by how much it hurt to breathe after he finished with me. He came with Avery, but he just liked to cast spells. The Cruciatus mostly, but occasionally he got a bit more creative,” he told Ron. “Dolohov and another Death Eater, Selwyn was his name, maybe, came along a day or so later and finished the job. I didn’t really recognize him. It was him or Travers, though; one of the two that were at the Lovegood’s when the whole place came down around our ears. I remembered his voice,” he explained. “Dolohov broke my leg then, too. He got really pissed and kicked the shit out of it, and it just snapped and folded underneath me. I couldn’t get up again after that, and they started kicking me. I think that did it for my ribs, and maybe my kidneys, too. Christ,” he said, now rubbing his lower back at the memory. “One of them was wearing some fantastically hard boots.” 

Tears had sprung in Hermione’s eyes again at his casual description of his torture, at the dispassionate description of the terrible beatings he endured. She pictured his body after they had brought him back to their cell every night, the bruises and gashes she was cataloging growing as the days wore on. His exposed battered flesh had turned black and purple, matted and crusted with his own blood as the violence against him increased, layering new wounds over old. But that day with Dolohov, that was surely the day they didn’t bring Harry back. The night when she and Ron feared for his life as the evening wore on with no Harry, because the sight of him that next morning was a terrible shock.

“Draco fixed my leg, I think. If I’m remembering it right. I was passing out. Someone did, though. He was yelling at them to stop before they killed me.”

“That fucking ferret!” Ron growled savagely, his fists clenched on the arms of his chair.  “Did he just come to watch the show?”

“No, he brought me some food and water,” Harry explained. “They turned up while he was waiting for me to finish eating. They told him to leave, but he didn’t, so I guess he did stay to watch it. They might have killed me if he hadn’t stopped them, though. They were sure giving it a hell of a try. Then she came, and I spent the rest of the night with her. Then it was Snape the next morning. You know the rest after that,” he finished with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“He’s still a piece of shit. He brought us food as well, but he wouldn’t help us,” Ron said bitterly. “Hermione begged him. If he would’ve just freed us, we could have come for you and made a run for it,” he said, his voice full of anguish. “Maybe we could have stopped most of it.”

“Draco may not have helped us, Ron,” she said, “but he had plenty of opportunities to harm Harry or us, and he didn’t.”

“Too big a coward, if you ask me.” Ron muttered.

“Plus, he gave us back our wands in the end. He never even tried to stop us leaving.”

“If you were Draco and you’d just seen what Harry did to your Death Eater mates, would you have tried to stop him?” he asked incredulously. “Jesus! He probably wet himself when Harry turned to look at him. He may not have done anything directly, but he didn’t stop it either. He knew what was going on in his own house.  He knew what they were doing to Harry, and he didn’t lift a finger to help us.”

“Well…” she said, though she couldn’t come up with an argument against it, couldn’t disagree with Ron, and so she closed her mouth. 

Draco’s own father was brutalizing Harry, torturing him, not to mention his aunt. To defy them would have taken courage she knew Draco didn’t possess. It would have been paramount to suicide for him to have tried, even if he’d wanted to, which she wasn’t sure he did.

“Avery practically dragged you in that day,” Ron said then, turning back to Harry. “How did you get up from that?” he asked, sounding awed. “When she kicked you, how the fuck did you get back on your feet after that?” 

“She was torturing you. I had to stop her. She would’ve killed you both,” Harry said with a shrug of his shoulders, as if it were that simple, that obvious. “Kill you or torture you into insanity, like she did Neville’s parents. I couldn’t let her. I wasn’t going to let her kill you in front of me.”

“But…” Ron started, and then seemed to give it up with a shake of his head. 

They sat quietly a few minutes, all of them lost in their own memories of those terrible days, before Dobby poked his head around the corner.

“Lunch is ready, Harry Potter, sir. Would you like Dobby to serve it in here, or in the kitchen?” he asked.

“Thanks, Dobby. We’ll take it in the kitchen. There’s no need for you to bring it in here,” Harry said as he got to his feet. 

Ron mirrored him, standing up quickly. Hermione assumed it was out of an eagerness to eat, still hungry after his meager breakfast, perhaps, but he immediately went to Harry to help him stand.

“Um… I’m fine, Ron. I can make it on my own now, you know,” Harry said, sounding amused and a tiny bit annoyed, as well.

“Yeah, I guess I forgot. Talking about all of that again, you know. It made me forget a minute just how far you’ve come.” He shrugged his shoulders in apology. “You really are much better, aren’t you?” he asked, his hand at Harry’s elbow, looking him up and down critically.

“Yeah, I was telling Hermione this morning how much better I feel. It’s remarkable, really. I think I’d forgotten what it feels like not to be in complete agony all the damn time.”

“You made me hurt just talking about it,” Ron replied. Then he paused before asking, “Which leg?”

“What?”

“Which leg did Dolohov break?”

Harry’s eyebrows met as he wrinkled his forehead in both surprise and confusion. Then a tiny smirk broke across his face as he stared quizzically at Ron. “Does it matter?” he asked.

Ron shrugged again.“Does to me,” he replied.

Harry continued to stare at him a minute longer in that same bemused sort of way. Then he pointed to his right leg. Both she and Ron stared at it, as if they could see the evidence of the injury through his jeans. 

“We should’ve killed Dolohov and Rowle instead of just wiping their memories in that coffee shop, Harry. We should have just ended them there and been done with it. Then they wouldn’t have been able—”

“Ron, don’t say things like that.”

“Dolohov almost killed you in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione. He didn’t deserve any more chances. We’ve got to start being more ruthless. Like them. The next time I get a chance to put one of them down, they’re staying down,” he said defiantly, his tone a promise in every syllable, making the hairs stand up on her arms.

While Harry woke this morning in a better mood than she could remember in a long time, Ron seemed to have woken bent on revenge. He clearly hadn’t slept well last night, and he woke feeling aggressive today, she thought. She decided, on the whole, to keep her mouth shut. Trying to argue with him this morning seemed a bad idea. Harry must have felt along the same lines as she did, because he neither agreed with Ron nor challenged him. Maybe he felt that Ron was merely stating a fact and, therefore, didn’t require a rebuttal. 

Harry stepped past Ron then without a word and headed for the stairs. Ron glanced at her a moment, his expression unreadable, and then hurried after Harry before she’d even gotten to her feet. She was left in the drawing room feeling stunned, feeling like she’d opened Pandora’s Box this morning when she decided to discuss the Horcruxes and now deeply regretting it. 

Both Harry and Ron were acting out-of-character this morning, making her fear that she’d made a huge tactical mistake by broaching the subject today. She’d been given the same gift of curiosity the gods had given Pandora, however, and she was just as incapable of suppressing that curiosity. She just hoped that it wouldn’t bring them all to ruin because of it.

Her brain finally managed to get the message to her feet to move, and she turned to catch up with Harry and Ron, praying that unlike the Greek myth, all the evil hadn’t been released from the box and hope remained left behind. They were going to need some hope. She hurried out and caught up to them halfway down the stairs.

Ron sat on her left, and Harry sat down opposite them, across the table, when they arrived in the kitchen. Now that Harry was feeling better, she thought, he needed to work at putting back on some of the weight he’d lost. Dobby would be doing them all a great service if he could help Harry gain back his strength as quickly as Madame Pomfrey had helped him gain back his health. He was still much too skinny, and the last few days of nourishment potions hadn’t done anything to help that. He ate huge meals yesterday, though, as well as breakfast this morning. He ate with so much enthusiasm, it made her think she’d dined with Ron instead of Harry.  She didn’t think he could possibly be hungry again now, but she certainly wasn’t going to complain.

Once they’d settled into their shepherd’s pie, Ron finally spoke again, bringing them back to the topic of Horcruxes. “Let’s talk about this Horcrux again,” he said after he washed down a mouthful of his meat pie with pumpkin juice, “I got a little sidetracked earlier. I don’t remember everything that happened before we escaped. Actually I only just remembered some of what she’d said last night.” He glanced nervously at Harry again. “She mentioned Snape.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed with a nod of his head. “After… after what I did… to Hermione.” He let out a huff of breath, the words seemingly difficult to get out, like they were too big for his mouth. He stared intently across the table at her, his eyes telling her their game of avoidance was over now, and that he’d gotten as close to it as he could, said it as plainly as he was able. “She said she was going to make me do to you, what Snape made me do to him,” he explained, his intense eyes now on Ron, who looked uncomfortable again, shifting in his seat. “But she’d changed her mind once he tried to help me escape. She said she thought it was an act, or something, that maybe we’d planned it together,” he finished, shoveling a forkful of steaming lamb and potato into his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s the part I was remembering last night.” Ron confessed, his ears turning deeply red. “But I can’t remember her saying anything about a Horcrux. Though admittedly, I don’t really remember much after that. She kicked you in the face, and then she hit me with the Cruciatus again. I was just bloody screaming after that until you cast that shield.”

“She kicked me and cursed you because I said his name again,” Harry told him, using his fork to gesture between Ron and himself.“She was finished playing with us after that, I guess, and decided to finally get down to business.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember that now, Harry. You said she was crazy, or something—”

“Delusional,” Hermione interrupted. “Harry said she was delusional.”

“I’m surprised you remember anything that was said right after…” Harry said, staring at her again.

“I’m surprised _you_ remember anything at all,” she replied. “You were beaten nearly to death, Harry. You were burning with fever, too. I could feel it coming off you…” She stopped, sucking in a shaky breath and then clamped her mouth shut, looking down at her own plate to hide the tremble of her lips. She remembered vividly the heat of his body, the fever shining in his bloodshot, glassy eyes, his pupils enormously dilated from the effects of the potion as he’d pressed his forehead to hers. He’d smelled of dirt and fear, a heady mixture of sex, blood, and sweat soured on his skin. He smelled like a body in decay, bruised like an overripe fruit. 

She put her fork down, unable to eat anymore, feeling Harry’s eyes on her now. She could see Ron turned to her in her peripheral vision, too, staring at her. Ron slid his hand over hers on the table and she squeezed his fingers, needing him to anchor her as she forced her eyes back up again. 

They were all there together in the dungeons. They’d all been forced to endure their own thoughts of that day, each of them reliving the horrors from their own memories, their own perspectives. 

“I don’t even know how you were conscious, much less coherent, Harry,” she said, forcing herself to finish, though her voice sounded watery.

Harry laid his fork on his plate and sat back in his chair, watching Ron’s thumb stroking her hand, his eyes full of regret again before they clouded over.

“I remember every word,” he said quietly. “From the moment they dragged me back into that room. As soon as I realized you two were still alive.” He turned his left arm over to stare at the terrible scar, running a finger up the jagged path he’d carved into his own skin. “I remember too much of what happened there. Sometimes my head aches trying to hold all of it. When all the memories start crowding my mind, when they start competing in my nightmares, it feels like it might explode. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget any of it. God, I wish I could,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

“Stop it,” she snapped with a little more anger than she’d meant, determined to keep this day from spiraling into a giant pity party for the three of them. 

Harry jumped at her voice, his eyes darting back to hers. They stared at each other a few minutes, her heart squeezing painfully at his words so she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She knew they were both remembering their conversation in bed this morning. He’d saved all of their lives and that was it as far as she was concerned. She’d told him that. There was nothing to forgive.

“I still don’t see…” Ron started again after clearing his throat to break the silence. “The Horcrux?” 

He’d stopped stroking her hand, but squeezed her fingers at Harry’s words. He, too, seemed to be trying to pull them out of the vortex they kept being sucked into, unable to break away from the darkness of their memories long enough to focus on the Horcrux. 

“Bellatrix said the Dark Lord would know his faith in her wasn’t unfounded. She said that Snape and Lucius had failed him, and that she was his most faithful servant.” Hermione explained, speaking quickly. “She said the Dark Lord had trusted her with his most prized possession.” 

“And you think this prized possession is a Horcrux?” Ron asked for clarification, finally releasing his grip on her.

“Yes. It’s what led me, and obviously Harry, too, to believe that You Know Who gave her a Horcrux for safe-keeping, like he did Lucius. Maybe years ago, before Harry defeated him as a baby, just like the diary he gave to Lucius Malfoy.”

“Exactly,” Harry agreed with a nod of his head, picking up his fork again to continue his lunch. “His most secret of secrets, his most prized of possessions. That’s what she said. What else could it be? He gave one to Lucius. He definitely could have given one to her.”

“The question now, is which one?  Hufflepuff’s cup or the unknown one of Ravenclaw’s?” she interjected.

“Assuming Riddle even managed to get his hands on anything of Ravenclaw’s,” Harry added, making Ron’s head swivel back and forth between them as if he were watching a tennis match as they spoke. “And if he gave her one, where is it? If he asked her to keep one safe, where would she have put it? She was locked up in Azkaban for more than a decade, she and her husband both. Wouldn’t the Ministry have done a search of their home or something to confiscate any dark objects? If they were known convicted supporters of Riddle, wouldn’t the Ministry have some recourse to seize their property to pay restitution to, say, Neville’s family, or something, for what they’d done to his parents?”

Both Ron and Harry turned to her now, waiting for an answer.

“Well,” she began. “I’m certainly no expert, but the Ministry couldn’t seize their home or property unless they could prove the objects were dark in nature, or had been gained by some ill-gotten means. Like if they had stolen it or acquired it illegally or during the commission of a crime, let's say. If they could prove they’d profited from their crimes, then yes, they could seize those profits,” she explained. “As for Neville’s parents, if a judgment had been rendered against them in a civil claim, gold could be confiscated from their vaults to pay the damages awarded to Neville and his grandmother.”

“Do you think she has it stashed somewhere in her home then?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know. If it’s Ravenclaw’s artifact, we have no idea what it is. It might be another piece of jewelry, like Slytherin’s locket or the ring. If that’s the case, she may be wearing it. Though, after Lucius was so careless with the diary, I doubt You Know Who would let her walk around with it pinned to her corset, or something.”

“No, you’re right,” Harry agreed. “She’d want to keep it somewhere safe, even if she doesn’t know what it is. And I’m sure Tom would have wanted to make sure it was safe after he’d learned about the diary. Her home is as good a location as any, or maybe in her vault at Gringotts. That’s certainly well protected. So the next question is; how do we find out where she lives?”

“If my dad was still at the Ministry, he could’ve gotten us that information.”

“Yeah, or maybe Percy,” Harry added.  “He still works there, right?”

“No bleeding way Percy would tell us that,” Ron spat contemptuously. “The prat! He’s still not speaking to anyone in the family. He’d probably sound the alarm if he caught sight of any one of us.”

“Ron,” she admonished quietly. “He’s your brother.”

“Well, I’m not feeling a lot of brotherly love towards him right now, ‘Mione. The rest of the family’s in hiding for being in the Order and trying to help Harry get rid of You Know Who, and he’s going to work every day as if he doesn’t even know who we are.”

Once again, she couldn’t argue with him and so she kept her mouth shut.

Neither she nor Harry had any brothers or sisters. Harry certainly couldn’t count his cousin as a brother when he himself hadn’t even been treated as well as a family pet by his aunt and uncle. They’d functioned more as his jailors than his family. She had loving parents, but she’d been very lonely before starting Hogwarts. She had no sister to share her secrets with or fight over clothes with, no brother to tease her, no one that she could confide her feelings to. She’d actually had very few friends before she met Ron and Harry.  She’d been ostracized by her peers at her muggle school, and so she worked doubly hard to please the adults that surrounded her:  her parents, her teachers. Without friends or siblings, she really hadn’t known how to behave like a child.

Hermione couldn’t really understand the sibling dynamics that Ron had grown up with, the bonds and the rivalries between them. She’d said before that Harry felt like a brother to her and Ginny a sister, but she really didn’t know what those terms meant. She only knew that the Weasley’s were a very loyal, close-knit family who loved and protected each other fiercely. She was jealous of the gifts Ron had, and yet he always believed himself so poor. Their vaults may have been empty, but their home certainly wasn’t. She and Harry had been invited into that family, had been enveloped into that protection and love, Harry especially, and it hurt her soul that Percy was estranged from them all. In some ways, he was a kindred spirit for her. She could relate to his ambition and love of rules so much more than she could with the blatant lawlessness of the twins. She couldn’t abide by his methods, however, abandoning his family for his career. That was unacceptable, and she hoped dearly that he would come to his senses soon, and that his family would forgive him and welcome him back when he did.

They finished their lunch and returned to the drawing room, where they continued discussing the location of the Horcrux. Harry suggested Tonks’ mum as a source for where Bellatrix might be living. He’d met her when they’d escaped Privet drive. Tonks’ parents’ house was the safe house Harry and Hagrid had been assigned to as their rendezvous point.

“I almost freaked out when she came in the room. She looks so much like her sister,” Harry told them. “I actually yelled and was searching for my wand to curse her when Tonks’ dad told me who she was. She looks remarkably similar, much more so than Draco’s mum.”

They didn’t have high hopes that she would really have that much information, however, as the Black family had disowned her when she married Ted Tonks. She’d had no contact with either of her sisters since then. Still, they decided it was worth asking Lupin the next time they saw him. Trying to sneak back into the Ministry to get the information was ruled out almost immediately as a possibility.

“Are we really planning to break into Bellatrix’s house?” Ron asked nervously, drumming his fingers restlessly on his thighs while Harry squeezed his eyes closed briefly, his mildest reaction yet to the sound of her name so far today. “I mean, I know we broke into the Ministry and all, but I have to say that this makes me a lot more nervous. We’ve never gone after a Death Eater directly before, especially not someone like her.”

“Well, we know it’s not here in Grimmauld Place, and we’re not likely to find it camping all over the countryside in the tent either,” Harry replied sarcastically. “It’s the best lead we’ve got. It’s that or the vault, and frankly, her house has got to be easier than trying to break into Gringotts, unless it’s under the Fidelius charm. I don’t know where else she would have kept it.”

“We need more information,” Hermione said in frustration. “We don’t have nearly enough to go on.”

Harry’s angry comment the other day about none of their ideas being good ones kept echoing in her head. He was right, of course. They had narrowly escaped the Ministry, and going to Godric’s Hollow had just been foolish. They’d made mistake after mistake and were lucky to be alive, actually. Their last one had cost them all dearly. She wanted to make sure they explored every avenue before leaping this time, gathering all the information possible. More than anything, she now understood that their lives depended on it, the fear no longer a vague concern, but a very real threat to their survival.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “We don’t even know which Horcrux she has. We could search the place top to bottom, but if it’s not the cup, how will we even know what we’re looking for?  I don’t think she’s likely to have it in a box labeled ‘Top Secret’ or anything,” he said derisively.

They discussed the subject for the next few hours and all through dinner, until they were merely re-hashing the same possibilities over and over again and becoming more frustrated for it. Over dessert (which was indeed a treacle tart) they’d all agreed that they simply needed more information. They really needed to know what the last Horcrux was. Without that information, they’d be searching blindly, and they couldn’t afford that. If they were going into Bellatrix’s home, they needed to know what exactly they were risking their lives for so they could get in and get out as quickly as they could, limiting their exposure  as much as possible.

She pulled out her copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ from her beaded bag, though she’d read it numerous times, to see if she could glean any more details about the founders and any objects associated with them when they’d returned again to the drawing room. She found nothing, of course, and though she didn’t expect to find anything useful, they searched the Black Family Library for books or documents that might be in anyway helpful, but there was nothing there either. 

After the boys had given up and returned to the drawing room, she continued to poke around the dusty volumes. She took a few of them just for some light reading, to help pass the time. It was as if she couldn’t help it; even though the books in the Black library were dark and not generally to her taste, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she was desperate.

She returned to the drawing room with three large books tucked to her chest. Ron and Harry were engaged in a game of chess with Ron’s new set. Both of them were smiling, which was nice to see after the darkness of their earlier discussions. There were already-vanquished pieces scattered beside the chess board, casualties of the battle. She stood in the doorway and watched them unnoticed for several long minutes. It reminded her so much of their time at Hogwarts in their transfigured drawing room. She wished they were truly back there and they could just start all over. The longing to return to those days nearly overwhelmed her.

Ron uttered a cry of dismay when one of Harry’s pieces went on the attack. She couldn’t tell which one from here, but the move must have come as a bit of a surprise to Ron. He normally beat Harry fairly easily.

“Are you losing your touch, Ron?” she asked him as she came into the room finally and dropped the books in one of the chairs.

His ears went strangely red again. “I’m doing just fine,” he replied, sounding mildly outraged at her lack of confidence in him. “Harry’s just changed up his play style a bit since the last time we played. Maybe learned a few things from Ginny, but I’ll have him in the end,” he told her confidently.

“Hermione, have you been in the library all this time?” Harry asked with a laugh, looking at the books she’d dropped in the chair. Ron grinned as well at the familiarity of the scene.  

Harry’s words seemed to echo at her from across the years, having been spoken so often within the walls of Hogwarts that the nostalgia that spread over her was almost suffocating.

“Come to give us a telling off for skivving off our homework?” Ron teased.

“Oh, shut it. It’s not as if there’s much else to do here,” she replied.

“Yeah, you must be going into withdrawals, though, to pick something out from that library to read.”

“I’ll admit there isn’t much there that’s appealing, and I don’t really feel like starting one of them right now, either. I think I’ll write a letter to Ginny instead,” she said.

The smile slid suddenly off Harry’s face. “Why?” he asked suspiciously. “You aren’t thinking of inviting her back again, are you?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Harry. I’ve learned my lesson, believe me. But we do need to send Pigwidgeon back to them. We can’t have him following us around or leave him here, and if you aren’t planning to write back, then Ron or I should. I don’t know if you know this about her, Harry, but Ginny can be a bit stubborn,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t fancy getting another howler from her. If she doesn’t hear from one of us, she’s likely to come storming back over here on her own, invited or not.”

Harry didn’t respond. Apparently, he had no argument against it, though he continued to stare at her as she gathered herself some parchment and borrowed his quill and inkwell. She could feel his eyes on her while she wrote, but Ron eventually got him back into the game, and they finished about the time she wrapped up her letter to Ginny. Ron beat him handily, though. Harry’s earlier concentration had evidently been lost, his mind no longer focused on chess. She could see him darting glances at her out of the corner of her eye as she wrote.

“What did you say to her?” he asked her as she was rolling up the letter and sealing it with her wand.

“That’s between Ginny and me,” she answered curtly. “If you have something you’d like to say, you can write her yourself. I’d be glad to hold off sending it until you’ve finished.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. It’s not your business what I write in my letters to friends,” she told him, but then relented slightly. “I did tell her that you weren’t ready to write back, and asked her to please keep Pig for us a while longer,” she revealed, which was perfectly true, though she also told Ginny not to give up on Harry either, and she couldn’t resist telling her how much he’d improved since their last visit, but Harry didn’t need to know that. 

She missed Ginny. They’d grown close over the years. She was the only female friend Hermione really had, and when your best friends were two boys, you sometimes needed a female perspective, or a break from all the testosterone and talk of Quidditch. Ginny surely felt the same, growing up with six brothers, though she was just as eager to discuss Quidditch. Seeing her the other day had been both wonderful and stressful. Hermione couldn’t stop the recent, now-familiar gut-gnawing feelings of jealousy that crept up on her at seeing Harry’s reaction to Ginny, though. How easily she moved around him, how captivated he was at the sight of her. 

Ginny had a way with Harry that no one else did. She could just be with him untroubled, helping him forget his own.  She could calm him and take his mind off the immense pressures of being _The Chosen One_. She didn’t try to coddle him as so many of the rest of them did, and she didn’t let him pity himself either, but most importantly, she didn’t cling. She simply let Harry get on with the business of being Harry. 

Hermione had done nothing but encourage their relationship from the beginning, counseling Ginny early on when Harry was too obtuse to see what Ginny really meant to him. Reveling in it when he’d finally come to his senses in sixth year, and encouraging Harry this morning to reach out to her. Even in the letter to Ginny she still held in her hand, she told Ginny to hold out hope for him, but still, a part of her was at war with that sentiment. She still fought the conflict within her about the depth of her feelings for Harry, still so confused by them. 

Her words felt disingenuous, and that made her feel guilty, wanting Harry’s happiness with Ginny, but also wishing against it with that small, selfish part of herself that had emerged from the dungeons and grown here in their time at Grimmauld Place. Hermione wanted to be able to fill that void, that loneliness in him. She kept trying to suppress it, but she couldn’t seem to snuff it out.

“I also asked her to get word to Lupin that we’d like a quick visit with him when he’s able,” she finished.

It appeared Harry could find no fault with her responses, and so he nodded his head as if giving his permission. She brushed against Ron’s legs as she walked past him to Pigwidgeon’s cage, and Harry got suddenly to his feet.

“I think I’m going to bed,” he announced as she was tying the scroll to the owl’s leg.

“What?” Ron asked. “It’s only like, seven-thirty, or something.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get up at noon today. I’ve been up a bit longer than you, Ron.” Harry replied with a smirk.

“Okay then,” Ron agreed, starting to stand.

“No, it’s all right, you stay here. I’m just tired,” he explained, but Hermione suspected it was a lie. He wanted to leave them alone together, she thought. He was trying to give them some privacy. “I just feel like tucking in early tonight. You two stay,” Harry suggested, collecting his journal.

“Nah,” Ron argued. “We’ll come, too, if you’re ready for bed.”

“We’re not Fluffy,” Harry replied, his eyes finding hers to stare pointedly at her. “Right?”

“Huh?” Ron asked in confusion.

“Never mind,” Harry muttered. “I’ll be just fine.  Really,” he added when Ron continued to stare at him, frozen still half-in-half-out of his chair.

“You sure?” Ron asked. “You don’t need any help on the stairs, or anything?”

“For God’s sake, Ron, I’m fine,” Harry said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Stop smothering me, you git. The beds have been separated now anyway, so if it’s that you’re eager to get your hands on me again, you’re out of luck.”

Ron’s neck and ears went red again, and his mouth opened slightly in shock before he finally found his voice. “I was bloody well asleep, wasn’t I?  It sounds to me like you’re the one who’s fixated on having my hands on you,” he grumbled. 

Harry’s face broke into a huge grin. “Maybe,” he confessed, as he waggled his eyebrows at Ron. “I’ll admit the memory is still quite vivid. It’s making me feel all tingly.”

His eyes darted back to hers, and she felt her own face reddening like Ron’s now, too, making her wish acutely that she’d never answered his query this morning and given him so much ammunition to use against her. Harry smirked at the pair of them a moment longer, apparently satisfied with himself, before heading up to bed, leaving Ron and her alone in the drawing room.

Hermione smiled through her embarrassment. Maybe hope hadn’t been left in the box after all, she thought. God, she wished this new Harry stayed around awhile. Though, that kind of cheek couldn’t be left unchallenged. She was hardly as mischievous as the twins, or even Ginny, but that required some form of retaliation.

“Wanker,” Ron called after him.

Hermione could hear Harry snorting with suppressed laughter as he mounted the stairs. Yes, she decided, they’d need to work on that.

“Did I really have my hands all over him this morning?” Ron asked her then, sounding worried as he turned back to her.

“Yeah, you did,” she said with a laugh before walking to the window to let Pigwidgeon out.

“Bloody hell,” he moaned.

~ . ~


	24. Sleep Walking

Hermione released Pig, closed the window, and then locked the drawing room door with a wave of her wand while Ron collected the chess pieces. Running his fingers over the cold crystal, he admired the beauty of each one of them as he replaced them in their velvet-lined box. When he’d reclined back onto the couch, she joined him, sliding silently onto his lap. The room was strangely quiet now without the conversations and Pig’s constant hooting. He could hear the grandfather clock ticking away the time and the faint creaking of the couch as they settled into each other.

“So, where’s the firewhiskey you two were enjoying this morning while I was sleeping?” Ron asked, pretending to search the room with his eyes. “It’s got to be here somewhere, ‘cause I think Harry’s been into it again tonight.”

“You know, he woke up that way,” she told him. “Just in the most peculiar mood today, isn’t he?”

“I’ll say. I don’t think he’s ever been that open. Ever. It’s a bit unnerving, really.”

“You should have heard him in the bed this morning. It actually has me a little worried, to be honest.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Still, it beats fighting with him, which feels like all we’ve done recently. I’ll gladly take a day of him taking the piss over that any day. Besides, he’s an amateur compared to Fred and George.”

“Really?” she asked in a tone of disbelief. “You sure seemed to be getting flustered a lot around him today, even when he wasn’t teasing you. Your ears looked sunburned, they were red so much of the day.”

“Is that right?” he asked as he nuzzled her neck in a blatant attempt to distract her because he wasn’t sure if he was really ready to discuss how he’d been feeling. The truth was, he felt all out of sorts today. His thoughts last night, coupled with their discussions today about what happened in the dungeons, had Ron feeling all mixed up. He felt aggressive, angry at what had been done to Harry and protective of him, too, which wasn’t new, but the intensity seemed to have doubled overnight. It made him feel almost possessive of Harry now. It was like he was ready to take down anyone who tried to get near him. He felt like a mother bear protecting her cub, or something. 

He’d been hyperaware of Harry all day, too, which was annoying the shit out of him. He knew where Harry was in the room, every shift in his chair, every twitch of his hands. It didn’t matter where Ron was sitting. He could see Harry out of the corner of his eyes and couldn’t help them darting to him at his every movement. It was driving him mad, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed either, it appeared, by Hermione, at least. He felt like maybe he understood more clearly now what she’d been trying to tell him about her feelings for Harry recently. 

“So,” he breathed in her ear, “were the room changes his idea then?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere while she shifted on his lap to get more comfortable, sliding her hand over his chest.

“No. Well, not really,” she answered. “I was telling him this morning that we didn’t want to leave him alone in the room. Then I jokingly said we could set it up like the Gryffindor dormitories if he didn’t want to share the bed, and he just went with it. He said he thought Sirius would have thought it was funny,” she explained. “And then when you didn’t wake up, we decided to change this room as well.”

“He’s right. I bet Sirius would’ve loved it.”

“So why did you sleep so late?” she asked, evidently not willing to let the matter drop.

“I had a lot on my mind last night,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand as if to brush the subject aside. “It was just hard to fall asleep.”

“What was it?” she asked.

He hesitated, dropping his hand to her thigh, massaging it lightly while he considered what he wanted to say.

“Well, whatever it was, it followed you down this morning,” she told him when he still hadn’t responded. “You haven’t been yourself today either, Ron.”

“It’s just,” he began finally, resigning himself to discussing it because she could be endlessly persistent, digging until she got to the heart of the matter. He spoke quickly, deciding it was best to just get it over with. “It’s like I told Harry. Some of what Bellatrix said in the dungeons came back to me last night for the first time. I couldn’t sleep for thinking on it, and Snape again, too, after the row with Harry yesterday morning. Then discussing our little meet-up with the greasy bastard in the woods later, it was just all swirling around in my brain last night, and I couldn’t shut it out,” he said while he continued to stroke her thigh. “So yeah, I just had trouble sleeping,” he finished.

She stared at him a minute before nodding her head, apparently satisfied with his explanation, and he relaxed then, glad for the reprieve. He knew she suspected there was more, and he was surprised that she was willing to let it go at that, but he wasn’t about to complain.

They sat on the couch in companionable silence for a while with her drawing lazy symbols on his chest as he slowly stroked her thigh, both of them just reveling in their time together. He’d hardly touched Hermione since they accidentally woke Harry in the bed the other night. Then they’d had that blazing row the next morning, followed by their heavy discussions today about their time in the dungeons and Horcruxes so that he’d barely even touched her hand in the last two days. They needed some time alone together, to re-connect. He’d gotten used to having time with her again while Harry lay recovering from his latest setback, after their return from the forest, and he’d been missing it the last few days now that Harry was up and around again. He felt grateful that Harry wanted to turn in early.

“I don’t believe Harry was really tired at all tonight,” she said quietly, seeming to be thinking along the same lines. “I think he just wanted to give us some time alone together.”

“You reckon it’s because of what I said to him yesterday when I was angry? That you and I were just trying to find some time with each other?” he asked worriedly as he pictured Harry now sitting upstairs on the bed, twiddling his thumbs in an empty dormitory. Imagining how bored, how lonely Harry must be, Ron felt guilty then for wanting to be alone with Hermione.

“No… well, partly, maybe,” she half agreed, and then tried to clarify. “His comment about Fluffy? I told him this morning that I didn’t want it to be us and him, that I didn’t want to be divided up like that, and he said it sounded as if I thought we were three heads on one body,” she explained. “I think he’s just trying to give us some space, trying to get a bit of distance from us.”

“Hmm,” he said, frowning. There it was again, the feeling like Harry was pulling away from them. It bothered him tremendously, and he didn’t know why, really. It felt like Harry was trying to ditch them, to go on a suicide run, or something. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to push them away for their own safety, and that was the feeling Ron was getting now. But if the damn pillock thought he was going to shake them off, he was dead wrong.

This was his own fault, though, Harry’s self-imposed exile. Ron knew it. He could see Harry telling him, “I’m sorry if I’m interfering with your ‘relationship time,’” with stupid little air quotes yesterday morning, and now he was sitting upstairs alone so that they could have some time together. 

 _Well played, Ron,_ he thought glumly, feeling exceedingly selfish.

“Yes,” she said, nodding her head as if she continued to read his thoughts. “I don’t like it either. I think we need to keep a closer watch on him.” 

“We’re already with him twenty-four/seven. Unless you’re suggesting we start taking night watches again, or something, I don’t know what else to do,” he told her. “Do you want me to break his other leg so he can’t run?” he asked jokingly.

“Ron, that’s not funny,” she scolded, though she was fighting a smile.

“I know. I’m sorry. It probably wouldn’t work anyway. The stupid dolt would still get up and keep running anyway. Just dragging the damn leg behind him,” he said in exasperation, and Hermione laughed then in spite of herself.

“Good Lord, you’re right, of course. And it probably wouldn’t even slow him down.”

They went silent again then, both frustrated by Harry’s stubbornness. He was, at least. Hermione was probably plotting a way to monitor Harry’s every movement from now on. She needed to get with Winky, he decided, and get the elf sobered up long enough to teach her the magic she’d used to bind Barty Crouch Jr. to her at the World Cup. That way, if Harry tried to run, he’d have to pull Hermione along with him. Ron amused himself a minute with the image of Harry getting dragged out of his chair and down the hall every time Hermione needed the loo. Bet he wouldn’t like that very much, Ron thought. He’d probably go completely ballistic and burn the whole place to the ground in a rage. 

“Well,” she said, shifting on his lap again, “let’s just hope we don’t have to resort to breaking any of his limbs, for a while anyway.” Wrapping her arms around his neck then with a sigh, she pulled him as close to her as she could, pressing herself firmly against him.

Turning his attention to her, he slowly teased her earlobe with his tongue, deciding what they needed tonight was a distraction, from Harry, from Horcrux hunting, and Bellatrix. He’d had enough of that today. Ron needed to get out of his own head for awhile, to get Harry off his mind. He’d given them time together, and they might as well take advantage of it. Ron could resume feeling like shit about it later.

“You know, I’ve fantasized about snogging with you in the Gryffindor common room like a million times,” he told her as he brought his lips again to her ear, gesturing around the room with his hand before dropping it back onto her thigh.

“Hmmm,” she said, gasping a little as his wet tongue dipped into her ear. “Since when?”

“Since about fourth year. You know, when I finally spotted you were a girl,” he confessed, and she smiled again. “God, I wish I’d figured it out earlier, and that I’d worked up enough courage to tell you. We could’ve had so much time together.”

“Well, we got there in the end, Ron. That’s all that matters.”

She drew him into a kiss as she ran her fingers through his hair. His hand at the small of her back snaked its way under her shirt and up the smooth skin of her back. Pressing his palm flat against her then, he cupped her head with his other hand, shifting them again so he could recline her back against the couch. Her mouth was still fused to his, her hands still woven in his hair, so that he came with her. They broke apart and she sighed, letting her head fall back against the arm of the couch as he pushed her legs apart with his knee and settled himself between them, resting most of his weight against her. Her hands roamed over his back while he returned to caressing her thigh, his mouth now nipping on the delicate skin of her neck and at the hollow of her throat.

“This is just as good as I imagined it would be,” he whispered, lifting his head to grin down at her.

“It is nice, isn’t it?” she agreed, before leaning up and pressing her lips to the base of his jaw and sucking gently. 

He uttered a small curse, closing his eyes at the feel of her lips and teeth on him. Then she tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to work it upwards.  He shifted his weight to try and help her pull it off him. When she’d finally pulled it free of his arms and head, she dropped it on the floor next to the couch and returned her hands to their lazy exploration of his back.

“Are you sure you want to do this in here?” he asked. “It’s still pretty early. What if Harry decides to come back down?”

“Well, I don’t think he will, Ron, but I locked the door,” she said, struggling to push him off her so she could sit up.  

“I know, but still.”

“Do you want to stop?” she asked.

“No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Even I’m not that thick,” he said, affronted by the suggestion. “Like I’d turn down an opportunity with you. I’d have to be barking mad.” Kicking off his shoes, Ron reached for her again. Hermione was already working the buttons open on her shirt, and he pulled her legs into his lap to remove her shoes, dropping them onto the floor next to his. They’d likely kill themselves tripping over them later when they headed up to bed, but he didn’t care very much right now. “This is just so weird, though,” he said then, peeling off her socks and running his finger up the bottom of her foot.

“What?” she asked, exasperated. “What’s bothering you?”

“This, doing this in here,” he admitted. “It looks so much like the common room, I’m nervous, is all. I keep thinking we’re going to get caught, or something, by McGonagall, maybe, or worse, Peeves. I just keep expecting one of them to come swooping down on us at any moment.”

Hermione snorted.  “It does feel a bit strange, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, watching as she slid her shirt off and tossed it to the floor on top of his.  “I wish you had your school uniform on,” he told her, grinning lasciviously, his eyes roaming over her. “Or just parts of it.” Leaning into her, he placed kisses on her collarbone. “The tie, the skirt, and the socks, maybe,” he elaborated between kisses, as he worked his way down to the soft skin between her breasts, drawing that picture of her in his mind. “No knickers, no bra.  Your hair twirled up in a bun and held together with a quill, like you do sometimes.”

“Good Lord, Ron,” she said, sounding amused, but breathless at the same time, arching her back, giving his mouth a larger expanse of her honey-colored skin to work with. “I didn’t know you’d put so much thought into this. What other Hogwarts-related fantasies do I need to know about?” she asked.

“Some of them involve you and me in the library. Doing things Madame Pince would definitely not allow,” he replied, and she gave a soft snort. “The astronomy tower, too. I always thought that would be a nice place for a shag. There’s a few more,” he admitted. “How bout we save them for later, though, yeah?” he asked, his fingers now working the clasp of her bra. It popped free easily, and he grinned at her in triumph. He was getting better at it, he thought, feeling rather chuffed.

Hermione smiled at him approvingly. “Well done,” she said with a laugh. “No homework for you tonight, Mr. Weasley.”

“Oooohhh… I like you as Professor Granger,” he said enthusiastically. “Or better yet, Headmistress. You always were good at being bossy.” Pulling the bra free of her arms and leaning back into her, he inhaled her scent as his eyes took her in. “Are you going to put me in detention?” he asked her, his voice low now, a husky quality to it as he brought his warm mouth to her nipple, teasing it with his tongue and feeling her shudder.

“Lay back,” she said then, in her most authoritative voice.

A shiver went up his spine at the command, their light playful banter from before turning more intense as desire built between them.

“Oh, shit,” he groaned, sucking in a breath, feeling like his heart had stopped. The sound of her voice had gone straight to his cock. Ron immediately obeyed, laying back against the opposite end of the couch and stretching out while she stood up. She peeled off her jeans, leaving her in only her knickers while he watched her from his place on the couch. Trying not to fidget, he waited for her instructions. He was still in his trousers, but he didn’t dare attempt to remove them without her permission. Completely immersing himself in this fantastic new game they were playing, he was willing to submit to her every command.

Initially they’d been shy, unsure how to touch, where to touch to please each other, blushing uncontrollably on occasion with their fumbling ineptitude, at their inexperience. Hermione had been more embarrassed, more timid than him in the beginning. But they’d become comfortable with each other now, learning together as they explored each other, able to whisper intimate things into each other’s ears now, to tell the other their secrets and desires, to ask for what they wanted so that their lovemaking grew more and more pleasurable. Each encounter was more enjoyable than the last, though he didn’t even know how that was possible, but every time with her left him eager for the next, drawing him deeper into her spell.

Dropping to her knees beside him, her hands began working the button of his fly. He helped her push his trousers and boxers down, lifting his hips as she slid them over him and down his thighs, leaving them bunched at his knees. She ran her hands over his chest, grazing his nipples with her fingernails before continuing down his stomach while he squirmed. Then she turned her attention to his cock, which was full and thick against his stomach, jerking under her appraising gaze. She trailed a finger down his length, and he let out a little whimper as his cock jumped again, begging for attention, impatient for her. He closed his eyes at her touch, panting in anticipation.

He felt her breath on his thigh a moment before her warm tongue was on him, licking around his scrotum, sucking each into her mouth in turn and nipping at the sensitive skin, lavishing them with attention while her hands ran over his engorged cock. His mouth fell open and he groaned loudly, thrusting shamelessly against her palm until she placed her hands on his hips, holding him down to keep him from moving. He cried out in frustration, but it turned into a cry of pleasure as Hermione moved to his aching member, running her tongue up his shaft. 

Her name fell from his lips as he watched her mouth wrap around his knob, her lips stretching over him. He drew in a sharp breath as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive head, taking more of him in with every dip of her head while he strained against the hands still holding him in place. She’d only done this a couple of times, but she’d proved in typical Hermione fashion to be a very quick study, intent on mastering it. 

God, he loved her.

She stopped holding him down, releasing him to wrap her hand around his base. He tried to hold still, to keep his hips from bucking against her while she slowly worked him into a quivering mess, the muscles in his legs tensing, his toes pointing as her head bobbed, her hand stroked, and her tongue swirled. Sliding a hand into her hair, he clenched his other into a fist at his side while he muttered obscenities and praise alternately to the ceiling until he wasn’t even coherent anymore, reduced to moaning and begging beneath her.

He was getting close, ready for release from the intense gratification she was giving him as she continued to engulf him. And he didn’t know if he could tell her to stop, wanting both to be inside her and to let her bring him to completion with her mouth. 

“’Mione,” he whimpered. “I’m gonna come,” he warned as his body tensed. She increased the suction of her mouth and her speed in response, taking him even further into her mouth and humming around him. “Fuuccckkk,” he growled, gritting his teeth and gripping her head as his climax was being sucked out of him. 

His whole body shuddered as he spilled himself inside her mouth, leaving him panting and dizzy while she swallowed around him. Then, when he was spent, she leaned forward and kissed him, sliding her tongue into his mouth so he tasted himself on her, making him groan weakly.

“Good God, you’re fantastic,” he said breathlessly when she moved to his throat. “I’ll gladly take more detentions like that.”

“Detention isn’t over yet, Mr. Weasley,” she told him, sucking on his pulse point, which was still pounding with his heart. Ron whined, excited for her all over again. His body wasn’t quite ready to respond just yet, but it would catch up soon enough. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said wrapping his arms around her back and pulling her into him as he devoured her mouth. 

They broke apart, and he sat up, still trying to catch his breath. Kicking his trousers off onto the floor to join the rest of their discarded clothing, he slid to his knees beside the couch, taking her place and waiting for her to decide what she wanted next from him. 

Hermione watched him a moment and then got to her feet, standing so near him he had to tilt his head almost all the way back to look up at her. Without waiting to be told, he slid his hands up her thighs and pulled off her knickers, not taking his eyes off her. She smiled down at him in approval, and that was all he needed to take over.

He pressed his face to her core, his thumbs pulling back her folds as he gripped her hips, going straight for her clitoris. Grabbing at his hair, she gave a little squeal of surprise and pleasure as he tugged it between his lips and sucked hard. When her legs started to shake, he released the suction and started sliding his tongue against her in soothing circles.

“Your turn to lay back, luv,” he told her, pulling away from her so she could sit.  

She immediately reclined against the couch as he had done before her, throwing her arms over her head so they dangled over the side of the armrest. Leaning over her, he lowered his head to her stomach, placing hot, wet kisses all over it. Then he gently probed her navel with his tongue, causing her to suck in a breath and arch her back. Moving to the inside of her knee, he left a wet trail from his tongue all along her thigh as he worked his way up to her throbbing core, teasing her, making her just as impatient as he’d been in her place. Turnabout was fair play, after all, and it was his turn to play unfairly now.   

Sliding one of her legs up and draping the other over his shoulder, he leaned back down to her and lightly traced her opening with his tongue, finding her clit again and sucking gently on it this time while she sank boneless into the couch. He ran both hands up her stomach, over her breasts, kneading lightly while he continued to work his mouth over her, before rolling the hardening nipples between his fingers and tugging, mimicking the rhythm and the soft suction of his lips and tongue at her center.

“Ohhhh,” she moaned, letting her legs fall open, relaxing into it. 

When she was vibrating beneath him, restless for more, he released her nipples and placed a finger at her dripping entrance. She moaned encouragement, and when he didn’t move, she tilted her hips up to help him penetrate her. He let her pull his finger into her slick heat, let her grind her hips against his mouth, but he didn’t brace his hand against her, still teasing her, though he wasn’t holding her down like she’d done him. 

Ron positioned one more finger at her entrance and she began to mewl in anticipation, still trying to penetrate herself more deeply, to grind against his uncooperative hand. He waited to see if she would command him again, watching as she grew more impatient.

“Ron,” she growled in frustration, and he immediately slid his second finger inside her, turning her growl into a moan of appreciation as he pressed up into her then, his cock returning to full readiness at the sound. 

He rubbed himself against the couch while his mouth worked against her in earnest now. Her hands were back in his hair as she tried to pull him further into her, bucking against him.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” she cried helplessly a moment before she shattered, her body tensing as she howled her own release. 

He continued the lazy circling of his tongue until she relaxed her thighs, clamped vice-like around his head. Then smiling against her a moment, he returned the favor, leaning over her, and capturing her mouth to share her own taste with her. When he pulled away from her, she stared up at him with heavy eyes, looking replete.

“Your mouth should come with some kind of warning label,” she declared breathlessly and then began to laugh. 

Snorting in surprise, he grinned down at her. “A warning label?” he questioned in amusement. “Is that so?”

“Hell, yes,” she said with an emphatic nod of her head. “It’s incredible.”

“You want to slap a label over it, or just tattoo my tongue?” he asked, but she merely shook her head, still chuckling lightly. “I have something else that’s ready to compete for the title of incredible, or at least work to increase its standing if you’re interested,” he propositioned her as she stretched like a cat along the couch. 

Christ, she looked beautiful.

“Mmmmmm,” she sighed seductively, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her, pressing her flushed body against his and drawing him into a slow, passionate kiss. 

He slid onto the couch next to her, stretching himself out alongside her, glad to be off his knees, which were getting sore from their prolonged contact with the floor. Shifting herself beneath him, she pulled her leg up to wrap around his waist, opening her body to him so she was cradling him in the apex of her thighs, supporting most of his weight. He rocked his hips, rubbing himself against her, feeling how ready she was as he continued to make love to her mouth. And then he accepted her invitation, burying himself inside her to the hilt with a quick twist of his hips, making them both moan in satisfaction.

Releasing her mouth to rest his forehead on hers, he closed his eyes at the feel of her so tight around him. Then he drew his length out of her, only to slowly push back in as deep as he possibly could, lifting his head from hers to watch her expression as he pressed her down into the couch. 

“I love you,” he mumbled into the soft skin of her neck, burying his head in her hair as he established a comfortable pace and started to rock against her. Pushing her hips into him, she began to meet him thrust for thrust as she found his rhythm.

Ron let himself get lost in the pleasure she was giving him, feeling so much less frantic with one orgasm already behind him. Both of them sighed in contentment as he moved unhurriedly, almost lazily against her. She felt so good, her body wrapped around him, pulling him into her with her heels as she ran her nails up his back and over his shoulders. Then she placed her mouth on the cord of his neck, biting lightly and clenching her muscles around him. He moaned in response, tiling his head back to give her more access and thrusting into her more firmly, his pace quickening.

“Yes, faster, Ron,” she whispered against his neck as she arched up into him. 

He realized after a few moments that he didn’t have that much room to maneuver on the couch, though, and so he slid his hands under her, holding her tightly to him. With as much control as he possibly could, he turned them, rolling underneath her to reverse their positions. He managed it, maybe not with complete finesse, but without causing them both to tumble off the couch onto the floor, pulling out her hair, or getting a knee in the bollocks, anyway. He even managed to stay inside her somehow.

She didn’t waste any time once they’d settled into the new position, placing her hands on the couch arm for leverage, and leaning over him. He slid his hands up her back and down her sides as she began to rock over him. 

“You’re brilliant, ‘Mione,” he praised her. Ron loved this position, having his hands and mouth free to roam freely over her body while she ground down onto him, rolling her hips against him.

She started off slowly at first but quickly picked up her pace so that they were both gasping and moaning in pleasure. Pulling at her back, he urged her closer to him, and she bent her arms, leaning farther down to him so that he could flick his tongue against her nipple that was swaying tantalizingly over him. Ron lifted his head, trying to take more of her into his mouth and she stilled, bracing her arms, holding herself slightly above him. His hands went to her hips then, her nipple between his teeth as he dug his heels into the couch, lifting his hips to drive up into her. She threw her head back, her mouth open as she let out a growl of satisfaction. Working faster, he pistoned his hips into her with more force, grunting with every collision of their bodies as he felt his release building. She was nearing orgasm, too. He could see it on her face, feel it in the tensing of her body as she held her breath, clutching at the armrest. 

“Come on, baby,” he urged her, wanting to make sure she got everything out of this, trying to hold on for her. 

He latched onto her nipple again, sucking hard, and that was all it took as she cried out.  He let go, letting her pull him over the edge with her, waves of delicious pleasure spreading through him, pulsing deep within her while she shook all over, riding out her own orgasm.

“You look thoroughly shagged,” he told her with a weak smile when he could speak again, both of them still breathing hard in the aftermath, as he lifted a hand to her face to wipe away stray hairs that had fallen into her eyes. 

“I feel thoroughly shagged,” she agreed, sounding winded. Then she pressed her forehead to his chest and collapsed on top of him.

“Can I have another detention tomorrow?” he asked. “Professor,” he added, chuckling.

Hermione pinched him hard on his side. 

“Ouch,” he yelped, jerking underneath her to get away. Then he swatted her bum in retaliation. She let out a little yip of surprise, but he was already soothing the spot with his hand, rubbing in small circles, and she relaxed back against him.

“All right, but only if I get to paddle you then,” she grumbled into his chest.

He snorted. “Damn, Hermione. That sounds fantastic.”

They lay together on the couch for a long time afterwards, watching the room grow dark around them as he trailed his hand down the curve of her back, over her bum and back up again. Over and over again he stroked her in that hypnotic rhythm, letting his mind wander.  Everything had gone quiet again so that the only sound he heard was the ticking of the clock and their soft breathing.

“Do you think he’s asleep yet?” he whispered, not wanting to disturb the silence, as if Harry was asleep here next to them.

“I don’t know, but I nearly am,” she told him. “I don’t know how early he got up this morning because he was already awake when I woke up. But I think I’m ready to head to bed, too.”

Ron sighed and nodded. She sat up then, and just like, that their little bubble of isolation burst. The cocoon they’d been in the last few hours dissolved until the next time they could steal away together and forget everything else for a little while.

They gathered up their things in the dark, redressed enough so that they weren’t indecent, and headed upstairs, carrying their shoes and socks. 

It was a surprise when they entered Sirius’ room again. He’d forgotten how much it actually resembled the dorms. It made him smile a little. There was enough moonlight coming in from the window to illuminate Harry’s sleeping form. He’d chosen the middle bed, still deciding to position himself between them, apparently, which amused Ron even more. 

Harry’s head was cocked awkwardly to the side, his glasses still on, but askew on his face. His journal with the letters from Ginny lay scattered around him on the blankets. It looked like he’d decided to do a little bedtime reading tonight with his free time. Hermione slid his glasses carefully off his face while Ron closed the journal and placed it on the side table. Then he gathered the opened letters, re-folded them and stuffed them back in their envelopes before placing them on top of the journal. He was surprised Harry had finally opened them and had to fight the temptation to read what his sister had written.

Trying her best not to disturb him, Hermione adjusted the pillows around Harry so that he was lying more comfortably when she straightened back up. Harry sighed, shifting slightly until he’d evidently found the right spot and went still again, relaxing back into the bed. He looked peaceful, untroubled as they both stared down at him like a couple of new parents watching him sleep.

“Do you really think we’ll find a Horcrux in Bellatrix’s house?” Ron asked quietly, his mind returning reluctantly to the Horcrux hunt.

Hermione was silent a moment. “I’m almost sure she has one, Ron, but I don’t know really where it is, if it’s in her house or not. And I don’t know how to find out without trying to capture her and force her to drink Veritaserum or something to tell us,” she whispered, turning her face to stare up at him. “I’m afraid we’ll have to search her home, or any other likely place that occurs to us to find it.”

“And do you think Harry will really be able to handle that?  I mean, it’s Bellatrix. He’s likely to lose his shit completely over this, Hermione. I don’t think he’s ready,” he warned her, still speaking quietly so as not to disturb him. “What if we actually do manage to figure out where she lives, get there, and he falls apart? What do we do then?” he asked, but she just pursed her lips, worry lines appearing on her forehead. “Why did it have to be her, for God’s sake? Why couldn’t it be one of the other Death Eaters that don’t make him go all wobbly when he hears their name?”  He sighed in frustration.

“He did better than I thought he would with Snape, Ron,” she said consolingly. “Although, admittedly, he’d already come to the conclusion that Snape was trying to save him in there. Still, he’s always hated him, and he did do some unspeakable things to Harry.”

“He wasn’t ready for that little trip either, though, was he?” Ron asked. “Look what that got him. Four more days on his back,” he reminded her.

“Physically he’s much better now, Ron. And besides, it’s not like we’re leaving tomorrow, or anything. Harry knows we have to finish this. We can’t stay holed up here forever.”

“I still don’t think he should have let Snape go,” he hissed, dwelling on the bastard again.  “I know you two don’t agree, but you weren’t standing right next to him like I was in those woods, Hermione. I swear to you, he liked doing what he did to Harry.”

“Well,” she said, “it wasn’t our choice to make, Ron. You need to let Harry deal with this in his own way. You’re pushing him to kill them all, and I don’t think you should.”  

“I don’t mean to, Hermione, but I’ll kill them myself to stop them getting at either of you again. I’m not letting them have another chance at him if I can help it. If that makes me a bad person or even a cold-blooded killer… well, I guess I can live with that.”

She stared up at him in silence, searching his face for a long time. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I can’t help how I feel.” He reached out a hand to stroke her hair, trying to soothe her, to soften his words.

“I know. I understand, truly. I just don’t know if I can do the same. I’m not ready to go there yet.” She looked down at her hands. “I’m worried about you. About both of you,” she whispered. “This war, the things we’ve seen and done… we can’t ever go back, you know? I just don’t want to see us go further down this road, further away from who we used to be.”

Ron nodded. He understood what she meant. He remembered that Harry said he was trying to hold on to himself, but Ron was trying to hold on to both of them. If someone threatened them, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate. Maybe he’d already lost himself, then, but he wasn’t mourning that old Ron if he had. He’d made the decision that he wasn’t standing on the sidelines any longer. It was too late to change his mind now even if he wanted to.  He was done just watching as terrible things happened to the people he loved.

“I just want to protect him,” he said quietly. “Is it wrong that I want to take you and him and flee the damned country?  Is it selfish that I want to keep you both safe, the rest of the world be damned?” he asked.

Turning to face him, Hermione slid her arms around his neck and laid her head against his chest. Ron pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist, his hands locked at the hollow of her back, and they rocked soundlessly as if slow dancing together. 

“I think if we could, we’d all do that, wouldn’t we?” she said softly. “Just grab each other by the hands and keep running.” 

“Yeah,” he sighed in agreement, resting his cheek on the top of her head, having to physically hold back the urge to act on it.

Harry may be the one who had to take down Voldemort, but Ron intended to be the one to clear the way for him. His role in this mission had never been as clear to him as it was since they’d escaped the dungeons. If it was Harry who had to kill him, then it was Ron and Hermione who had to help him get there and help hold him up if he needed it. It was the first time Ron had considered his own mortality, really considered it. The likelihood that the three of them would survive this war was slim. He knew that, yet it didn’t frighten him anymore. It only made him cherish the time they did have together and try to make the most of it.

They continued to sway together for a long time, until he felt sleepy with the rocking motion of their bodies. She yawned into his chest, and then pulled away from him.

“I love you,” she whispered and planted a kiss on his lips before crawling into her own bed near the window, farthest away from him. 

“I love you, too,” he said, and then stood there next to Harry for a minute longer before he finally made his way to his own bed. 

Once he was lying in his own four poster, though, he didn’t feel all that tired anymore. His late start this morning had messed up his sleep schedule. Lying with his head on his arm, staring up at the hangings on his transfigured bed, he felt weirdly lonely. It had taken only a few weeks of sleeping with someone next to him to negate nearly eighteen years of sleeping alone. 

His new bed felt too small, the bedding cold, and the pillow uninviting. He tossed and turned a lot, resigning himself to another night of restless sleep, but he must have nodded off at some point because the next thing he knew, his eyes had popped open in the darkness. He squinted around, trying to understand the disturbance he’d heard, looking for the source of what had awakened him.  His eyes began to adjust to the darkness as he blinked rapidly, revealing the outline of a dark form looming over him. It was Harry, he realized in stunned surprise, standing right next to Ron’s bed, staring down at him in eerie silence in the darkness.

Ron sucked in a startled breath. “Harry… wha—”

“Shhhh!” Harry whispered urgently, clamping a hand over Ron’s mouth to silence him, and pressing Ron’s head down into the pillow. Then he bent close to Ron so that Ron could see the weak moonlight reflecting in his eyes, making them appear to glow strangely in the darkness. They were wild and fearful, darting nervously around the room. It made the hairs stand up on Ron’s arms to see it. He hadn’t seen the crazy in Harry’s eyes for a while now, and foolishly thought that part was over, that they were past it. It looked like he’d set that fear aside too soon, however, as he stared up into Harry’s petrified face.

It was frightening enough to wake up with someone standing over you in the darkness, but when it was your best mate and his mental state was in question, it was downright terrifying.  What Harry said next, though, almost stopped Ron’s heart completely. 

“I think there’s someone downstairs,” he told Ron in a strained whisper, still bent low over him.

Ron immediately felt the ice cold tendrils of panic gripping him. He tried to sit up, but Harry planted a hand to his chest, pinning him to the bed with startling strength, his other hand still covering Ron’s mouth. Straining his ears, Ron tried listening for what Harry was hearing over the pounding of his own heart and his rapid breathing against Harry’s hand, but he couldn’t hear anything. He reached up to try and pull Harry’s hand off his mouth.

“She knows we’re here,” Harry whispered urgently, sounding frightened.

“What?” Ron whispered, finally succeeding in dragging Harry’s hand away. “Who? Who’s downstairs, Harry?”

“ _Her_ ,” Harry moaned, the hand on Ron’s chest curling into a fist. “We must have tripped some kind of alarm, or something, while we were searching the place.”

Ron stared at Harry, trying to see him more clearly. He must be asleep. He had to be having some kind of nightmare. Ron had never seen Harry sleepwalk like this before, though, or speak so lucidly in his dreams, but he clearly believed they were at Bellatrix’s house, perhaps searching for the Horcrux they’d been discussing all day. He tried to sit up then, moving slowly, still straining his ears in case there really was a legitimate disturbance in the house, but he heard nothing.

“She’s coming!” Harry gasped then, in horrified alarm as he gripped Ron’s shirt. “Hurry!  Go find Hermione. Get yourselves out of here!”

“Harry…” Ron started, not sure what to do. He was afraid to wake Harry, afraid he might react badly. What if he suddenly turned on Ron and thought he was a Death Eater? This could turn seriously ugly, if not deadly, if he made a wrong move.

“We’re going to die,” Harry declared with certainty, his voice going flat. “I can’t stop it happening, Ron. I’m so sorry.”

 _Oh, holy Jesus!_ Ron thought, letting Harry pull him to his feet by his shirt, feeling terrified himself now even though he was positive they were alone in the house. He didn’t know what to do. If he tried to reason with Harry, he might get angry. If he tried to reach for his wand, Harry might feel threatened, and then he was likely to do magic and hurt someone before Ron could stun him. He had no choice, he decided, except to play along, to try and convince Harry the danger had passed.

“We’ll hide,” he told Harry. “Come on, we’ll hide over here under your invisibility cloak and she’ll never find us,” he said in sudden inspiration, steering Harry back to his own bed.

“Yeah, okay.” Harry sounded relieved to have a plan. “Wait!  Hermione,” he gasped, trying to pull out of Ron’s grip.

“She’s already made it out. She’s safe,” Ron assured him, inventing wildly.

Harry visibly sagged with relief. “Are you sure?” he asked worriedly.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. She left. Gone to call the Order, just like we planned. Now come on,” he begged, trying to get Harry back into bed, praying to every god he could think of that Hermione stayed asleep. If she woke up now or moved or anything, Harry might think she was Bellatrix and lose his head completely. “Here, get under the invisibility cloak,” he urged, pulling the blanket back off Harry’s bed, “and don’t make a sound.”

As if he knew something here wasn’t quite right, Harry stared at him a moment before deciding to simply accept it, obediently crawling into his bed and lying down on his back. Ron went to pull the blanket up over him with shaking hands. 

“Wait,” Harry objected, grabbing the blanket before Ron could pull it over his head. “You’ve got to get under the cloak, too, Ron.”

Ron gaped down at him, dumbfounded for a moment. The bed was a single, there was hardly any room for the both of them to fit on it. This had been a stupid idea, he thought, but it was too late now to think of a new plan, so he crawled in next to Harry and threw the blanket over both of them. 

They were squashed together on the small bed, lying on their backs, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle. Harry’s hand snaked down Ron’s arm to clutch Ron’s hand in his own shaking one as they lay still and silent next to each other. Ron felt uncomfortably warm, only partly from the heat coming off Harry’s perpetually fevered body and their warm breath trapped under the blankets. After a few silent minutes that felt like hours, Ron rolled onto his side, facing Harry, and propped himself up on his elbow, sliding his sweaty hand out of Harry’s slackened grip. He pulled the blankets up a little to let some fresh air in with them while he stared down at Harry, though he couldn’t see anything in the near total darkness. Harry lay motionless, quiet as a mouse, so that Ron couldn’t even hear him breathing even though he was right next to him. Ron didn’t know what else to do except wait it out now and hope that Harry would fall back to sleep. 

He stayed like that for what felt like a long time, but was, in actuality, probably only a few more minutes. It was long enough that his arm had gone so numb that he could no longer feel his fingers. He waited until he was sure Harry was out again before he pulled the blankets down off their faces. He felt sweaty and knew his face would be red from the heat, his hair plastered to his forehead. Staring down at Harry then, he brushed the damp hair off his face and out of his eyes. Then he waited a few more moments, to be sure Harry wouldn’t wake back up again before he slid out of the bed to creep silently back to his own, worried that he’d wake Harry back up, and thinking Ron was the intruder, blow the whole place up in panic.

Crawling back under his own blankets when he’d made it back to the relative safety of his own bed, Ron lay boneless against the sheets in relief. Harry had never had that kind of episode in his sleep that Ron knew of, and he’d been sharing a room with Harry since they were eleven. He’d witnessed hundreds of Harry’s terrified nightmares and visions from Voldemort. He’d heard him mumble in his sleep, cry out in fear, scream in pain, and laugh even, but he’d never seen him get up and walk around, or carry on a normal conversation while he was asleep. He didn’t know if it was just anxiety from the idea of searching Bellatrix’s home for the Horcrux that had caused it, or if it was something more, a sign of a psychological break, evidence of a widening fissure in his mental state. 

Harry said he hadn’t been ready to talk about it this morning, about the suspicion he’d been harboring that Bellatrix might have a Horcrux. Was this simply a manifestation of his fear? Or maybe it was the whispered conversation he and Hermione had over him earlier that caused the episode, as if their words had seeped into his sleeping mind, planting the dream into his subconscious. He’d never known Harry to be frightened of much, not even Voldemort really, but he was certainly terrified of her now. Even the name caused a physical reaction in him, and Harry was completely unwilling or unable to speak it aloud. She had a powerful hold on him for sure. The trauma she had inflicted was apparently far worse than what Dolohov was capable of doing with his fists, and so much harder for Harry to heal from.

His strange behavior today had Ron worried, too. Even when they’d played chess, Harry wasn’t the same. Ron had played him countless times over the years. Harry had a specific play style, everyone did, really. Once Ron figured it out, he could usually beat them, but Harry played totally differently today than he ever had before. He’d chalked it up to watching Ginny, but now he wasn’t so sure. Had Harry emerged from the dungeons completely altered? And that damn fever! He seemed completely healthy now except for that fever. It made Ron think of those flames of Harry’s. As if the fire was just smoldering under his skin all the time now, elevating his temperature, waiting on Harry to call upon it, to explode out of him at his command. What else could it be? It persisted despite all Madame Pomfrey’s efforts. But she hadn’t seen what he and Hermione had in that dungeon. The way those golden flames just burst out of him, engulfing him yet causing him no harm. It was an awesome sight, terrifying and disturbing, and Ron would never forget it. Not as long as he lived.

Ron worried over Harry, sleepless again for the second night, it appeared. That seemed to be confirmed when he woke the next morning to find himself alone in the room again, though he could hear the shower running in the small bathroom. Sitting up, he ran a hand over his face, wondering how late in the day it was, feeling hopeful that it wasn’t as late as yesterday, or that he wasn’t alone in having a lie-in, since maybe Hermione was just now getting her shower, too. He slid out of bed and padded silently to the door, deciding to beat whoever was in the bathroom downstairs today so he’d take less ribbing. The lavatory downstairs was free, so he got a quick shower. When he entered the drawing room, he found Hermione pouring over a book, naturally, looking for all the world like she was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, but Harry was absent. 

“Ron,” she called when she saw him, sounding excited.  “I think I’ve found something!” She motioned for him to come over, pointing down at the book in her lap. “I don’t know why I didn’t think about it yesterday, but the Lestrange are a pureblood family.”

“Yeah… so?”

“I took this book,” she explained, turning the book over in her lap so he could read the cover titled, _Nature's Nobility, a Wizarding Genealogy._ He raised his eyebrows at her, and she continued. “When we first arrived here after Bill and Fleur’s wedding?” she prompted. “It’s been in my bag all this time.” She paused then, and when he continued to stare at her nonplussed, she went on. “It lists the histories of most of the pureblood families. The Lestrange family dates back for hundreds of years, and I’d hoped it might shed some light on where they originated.”

“And?” he asked her, finally cottoning on, feeling a bit excited himself.

“Upper Flagley, in Yorkshire,” she announced, with a triumphant smile.

“I told you we should go there!” he cried, pointing at her. “Didn’t I? In the tent, didn’t I?” She nodded at him, still grinning. “Brilliant! You’re bloody brilliant, Hermione.” She beamed up at him, and he looked around again. “Have you told Harry? Where is he, anyway?”

“He was in the shower when I got up this morning.”

“How long ago was that?” he asked frowning, his enthusiasm draining out of him to be replaced with an uneasy foreboding.

“I don’t know, really. I came down, and then got the idea for checking this book. I’ve been caught up in it ever since. I think it’s been a while, though. I just assumed he was with you, I guess.”

“No,” he said. “And the shower was still running when I woke up maybe fifteen minutes ago. He can’t be showering for that long, can he?”

“I… I don’t know, Ron,” she replied, worry creeping into her voice now, too. “I don’t know how long he’d been in there before I woke up either.” She set the book down and stood up. 

He hurriedly relayed Harry’s strange bedtime wanderings to her as they mounted the stairs together back to Sirius’ room, the beginnings of fear and dread forming a hard knot in his stomach. Ron could hear the water still running as soon as they stepped into the room, and his stomach clenched. In three quick strides he was at the door with his ear pressed against it. He tried the handle, but it was locked.

“Harry,” he called, rapping on the door, but there was no answer. He tried again, louder, but still nothing. He stared at Hermione, feeling well and truly terrified now, frozen in panic. 

 _Please don’t do this, Harry_ , he thought desperately, his heart unable to handle the strain so that it felt as if it had stopped beating altogether, his chest aching now in its absence. _Please let everything be all right,_ he prayed.  

Hermione pulled her wand, and Ron stepped back from the door. “ _Alohamora_ ,” she said in a shaky voice, and the door came unlocked with a faint click. 

Ron sucked in a trembling breath and held it, steeling himself as he turned the handle and stepped into the bathroom, praying to God he was simply overreacting again, that they would find Harry alive and unharmed, outraged at their latest intrusion upon his privacy. His eyes darted around the cramped room, and finding no immediate sign of Harry, he stepped next to the tub, Hermione right behind him as he pulled back the shower curtain.

They found Harry nude, sitting on his knees in the tub, the shower spray pounding on the top of his head and shoulders, rolling down his chest and back and pooling in his lap. He made no sign that he’d even noticed their entrance. He just sat there, pale and lifeless, his arms hanging limp at his sides. But there was no blood, no knife in his hand or signs of self-mutilation. Ron almost cried in relief when the sight of Harry didn’t match the horrific image he’d conjured in his mind, one he could visualize with too much clarity, as he’d seen it before in this very room. 

“Harry?” Hermione called to him uncertainly as she peered around Ron, but Harry still sat frozen, staring straight ahead while the water continued to rain down on him, as if he’d simply shut down in the middle of his shower this morning. 

Ron bent down to get a better look at him, quickly reaching to turn off the taps when he saw the blue tinge to Harry’s lips and the gooseflesh pebbling every inch of his skin. The water was freezing, and now he could see the slight trembling of his limbs and the dead look of his eyes.

“Shit!  Get me a towel,” he called, finally moved to action.

Hermione hastily tossed one at him, almost hitting him in the face with it as she turned and fled the room. Throwing it around Harry, Ron pulled his limp body from the tub. He was like lead in Ron’s arms as he struggled to hold him. When he finally had Harry securely tucked against him, he turned, staggering out of the bathroom under his weight.

Hermione had already transfigured the room, making quick work of it, returning it almost to the state it had been in a few days before with only the single magically enlarged bed dominating most of the space. Rushing to it then, she pulled back the blankets for him without even asking, and he dumped Harry onto it, still sopping wet. Then he curled up behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s stiff body and pulling him back against his chest. 

Harry was freezing, his body trembling powerfully as Ron tried to warm him with the blankets and his own body. Hermione grabbed another towel and crawled into the bed on the other side with Harry facing her. She worked to dry his hair while he shook violently in Ron’s arms, still staring straight ahead as if he was totally unaware they were even there, completely comatose while he and Hermione whispered urgently to him, trying to get a response from him.

“God damn it!” he yelled in frustration, tightening his hold on Harry as the tremors in his body shook the whole bed. “What the hell caused this, Hermione?” he asked, feeling helpless again. “Why is this happening? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” she cried, tears rolling down her face as she stared despairingly at Harry.  Her hands stilled on his face as she looked back to Ron. “I don’t know how to help him, Ron,” she confessed, her lips trembling. She scooted closer to Harry then, laying her head right next to his on the pillow so that their noses were nearly touching. 

The shuddering of his body was starting to subside as their warmth finally began seeping into his frozen flesh. She stroked his face as tears continued to leak out of her eyes, running her fingers along his cheek and over his eyebrow and then alongside his nose. Harry let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes in response, going totally limp suddenly in Ron’s arms.

“Did he just pass out?” Ron asked in surprise.

“I have no idea,” she confessed as she continued to stroke Harry’s face. “I think he might have just fallen asleep,” she told him, sounding bewildered herself.  “It’s as if he’s been completely exhausted by something.”

“Do you think it was You Know Who?” he asked her then quietly. “You think it was a vision or something that brought this on?”

“Maybe,” she said, sliding Harry’s still damp fringe off his scar and tracing it with the pad of her finger. “It’s usually bright red when that happens, though, like it’s burning on his forehead.”

“Christ, what are we going to do? Should we call Madame Pomfrey, do you think?”

“Let’s just let him rest awhile. See if he comes around on his own before we summon her here.  All right?” she suggested. “Dobby can get her here in a moment if he takes a turn for the worse.”

“All right,” he agreed, stretching out more comfortably behind him now to wait it out and pressing his forehead into the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry slept, resting soundlessly for almost an hour before he began to stir, coming around finally when his body had completely thawed, though he seemed totally mystified by their presence as he blinked himself awake. He pulled his head back sharply at finding Hermione so close to him, only to find Ron pressed against his back.

“Hey, mate,” Ron whispered, when Harry stared up at him. “You all right?” he asked, peering into emerald eyes which were blessedly clear, no longer blank and deadened as before.

Harry continued to stare up at him in confusion, and then he finally nodded. “Wha’s happened?” he mumbled, staring around the room again before looking back at Hermione.

“That’s a question for you,” Ron responded, feeling relief spread through him at the sight of Harry conscious and communicating, even if he didn’t appear to have any idea what the fuck was going on.

Harry pulled a hand out from under the blankets, wiped the sleep out of his eyes and scratched the side of his jaw, seemingly disoriented, before he finally looked back to Ron. “Why am I naked?” he asked then, utterly perplexed.

Ron smiled down at him.

“We found you in the shower, Harry,” Hermione told him in explanation. “Do you remember what happened?  Did you have a vision or something?”

Harry turned to her, silent for a long time while whatever he’d been through this morning seemed to flood into his mind.  He closed his eyes then and shook his head. “No,” he finally answered quietly.

“Oh, Harry, what happened?” Hermione asked him in concern, but he just shook his head again, looking devastated. 

His back pressed against Ron’s chest, Harry continued to lie between them with his eyes closed. He appeared unwilling or unable to elaborate on what event had sent him into a total mental collapse in the bathroom while Hermione carded her fingers soothingly through his hair, which stood up all over his head, having dried into tufts in his sleep.

“I don’t know what happened, Harry,” Ron began, “but you nearly gave me a heart attack. I swear you’re not going into that bathroom alone again. It’s like a fucking deathtrap for you. I think it must be cursed, or something. You scared the shit out of us again, and it’s really starting to piss me off.” He spoke quietly to soften his words because he wasn’t really angry at Harry at all, more weary with relief than anything, he supposed. 

Harry tilted his head back to look up at him, frowning. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I couldn’t help it.”

Ron nodded. “I know,” he whispered, though, of course, he knew nothing at all.

“I couldn’t make it stop, Ron. I think I may be falling apart,” Harry confessed then, looking scared.

Ron closed his eyes, sighing at his words, his heart clenching for him. He opened them again once the stinging had subsided, once he’d gotten control of himself again and could speak. “It’s okay, Harry,” he told him soothingly. “Hermione and I will help hold you together.”

As he stared down at Harry, who still looked devastated, ridiculous with his hair all wild, confused and vulnerable, Ron made a monumental decision. He’d waited forever for Hermione, almost too long, afraid to act on his feelings. He wasn’t making the same mistake again. He worried they hardly had any time left. 

This was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but he couldn’t stop himself. Leaning down to Harry, Ron closed the distance between them. He heard Hermione give a little “Oh,” of surprise a moment before he pressed his lips to Harry’s.

~ . ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.   
> -G


	25. Three’s a Crowd

Harry stood in the shower bracing his hands against the wall, his head down to let the water hammer against his neck which felt stiff this morning as if he’d slept on it funny last night.  He woke up early again today, like yesterday, but this time he wasn’t trapped on the bed between Ron and Hermione. The beds were singles now so he had the freedom to get up if he wanted to without worrying about disturbing anyone else’s sleep. He had tried to stay in bed anyway, to hopefully fall back to sleep because it was still too early to be up, but it was useless. He’d only lain there fidgeting, so he finally sat up, reaching for his glasses on the side table. 

He hesitated when he saw the notes from Ginny tucked back into their envelopes and stacked neatly on top of his journal. He didn’t think he’d put them there last night. He must have fallen asleep before Ron and Hermione came upstairs because he didn’t remember seeing them come in either. Quickly replacing the letters in the back of his journal to stop himself from looking at them, to prevent himself from pouring over them again and again like some lovesick sod, he slid his glasses on and headed for the bathroom. 

_Find yourself, Harry, finish what you have to do, and come back to me. I’m still waiting for you._

The words she’d written were burned in his mind from where he’d read them over and over.  He never should have opened them. It was stupid, but as he sat there on the bed last night alone in the empty room, he had a moment of weakness and couldn’t stop himself. He felt lonely watching Ron and Hermione together all day. Feeling like he was back at Hogwarts in their converted drawing room as he sat there having a game of chess with Ron. The impression was only reinforced when he came to bed and found it looking so much like their old dorm. He almost expected to see Neville or Seamus wander in complaining about the latest essay Snape had set them.  

Harry yearned for things to go back to the way they were then, like last year, before Dumbledore’s death, when he was with Ginny. Those few weeks had felt like they belonged to someone else’s life. He’d told her that at the funeral when he said they couldn’t see each other anymore, and he knew now it was true. Those were days, weeks, that he’d stolen from someone else and coveted with all his heart, but they didn’t belong to him. They were never meant for him.

Ginny was right. He needed to finish what he’d set out to do, that much couldn’t be avoided.  _Neither could live while the other survived_. He couldn’t outrun it, and he couldn’t stay here and hide from it. But he knew with certainty there wouldn’t be any coming back from it either.  Not as the same person, anyway. It was already too late for that.  He didn’t know how much of himself would be left to find if he even managed to make it out of this alive on the other side. 

He’d thought to write her back last night, to tell her he wasn’t coming back for her, to tell her to stop waiting for him, actually picking up his quill and loading it with ink, but he couldn’t form the words. Black drops merely dripped from the end of the quill he’d held suspended over the parchment, marring the blank page, his mind a jumble of mixed-up thoughts and feelings. He couldn’t give her hope, but he couldn’t take it away either. Or maybe the hope he really couldn’t crush was his own. In the end, his continued silence was all he could manage. She could decide for herself what to make of it. He knew that made him a selfish coward, but he couldn’t help it.

Harry could still remember the feel of her hair as it slipped through his fingers the other night, the soft skin of her cheek against his lips when he whispered his goodbyes, the intoxicating smell of her all around him when he leaned into her, trying not to clutch her to him, to cling desperately to her. If she came back, if he saw her again, he’d likely fall apart completely, get down on his knees and beg her to stay with him and hide here with him forever, but that wasn’t an option for him. 

His destiny was coming for him whether he wanted to face it or not. Tom wouldn’t stop searching for him, and he could wait an eternity for Harry. He was the most powerful dark wizard alive, and the fucker was immortal, so he’d likely hold that title for awhile if Harry didn’t hurry up and get off his arse. He, on the other hand, was a mentally unstable seventeen-year-old who just in the last two days was finally able to make it down the stairs without assistance. Bloody hell, his whole life was like a Greek tragedy.

Sighing, he tilted his head farther to the side, letting the nearly scalding water massage the complaining muscle a minute longer. Then he rotated his neck, working the stiffness out and leaned his head all the way back, allowing the water to pound against his face, drumming against his cheeks and eyelids a minute before dropping it forward again to hang between his shoulders. 

Harry marveled at how good he felt today, physically; really good, like yesterday. Other than the stiff neck, he didn’t hurt anywhere, and his brain couldn’t comprehend it. The feeling of a pain-free body had become so foreign to him. It made him feel giddy, as if he’d had a cheering charm cast on him. He knew he was freaking Ron and Hermione out with his abrupt change in mood, but he couldn’t suppress it. They couldn’t understand what it felt like to be free of it after so long. It made him feel light, almost buoyant. 

Lifting his head, he ran a hand over his face, slicking his shaggy locks back out of his eyes, then grabbed the shampoo and lathered his hair. He needed it cut badly. It was entirely too long, making it even more unruly than usual. He wondered how much damage Hermione would do to it if he asked her to trim it for him. It couldn’t be worse than the haircut Aunt Petunia had given him that one time. It had looked so damned awful, and his dread at having to face his classmates and Dudley’s bullying friends the next day at school made him magically grow it back overnight. Aunt Petunia had given him a week in the cupboard for that, but it’d been well worth it.

On a whim, he tried to see if he could shorten his hair by magic, concentrating hard. But after a few strained minutes of looking, he was sure, like the twins had given him a dose of _U-No-Poo_ , he had to concede he had no metamorphmagus abilities and gave it up as a bad job. It was either ask Hermione to trim it or leave it long, he decided. It was almost long enough to pull into a ponytail like Bill’s, falling well below his collar now. 

Uncle Vernon would raise an almighty racket if he could see what Harry looked like these days. His untidy hair had always been a source of irritation for the Dursley's. It was like a physical representation of their inability to force him to conform to their rules, no matter how hard they tried, unable to make it lie down, to make him lie down for them. His stubborn hair was a constant reminder that he would never fit into their neat, tidy little world. It was as if every cell in his body, every particle of his being went against the grain of their lives, of their smooth-ordered world, right down to the roots of his hair, and blimey, they hated him for it.

After rinsing his hair, he grabbed the rag and soaped it up, working it over his skin, trying not to linger over the places that still felt alien to his touch, each scar attached to a horrible memory that he didn’t want to revisit today if he could help it, and certainly not here in this bathroom anyway. Dwelling on those memories had driven him from the shower in a panic once already, and he wanted to avoid that if he could today. He wanted another good day, like yesterday.

He ran soapy hands over himself, down his stomach and over his cock, which was still semi-hard from the mere fact that it was morning. It continued to linger from the interest it had shown at the images of Ginny still vivid in his mind. This was another reason he preferred showers, he thought, as he wrapped slippery fingers around it. 

It had been a long time since he’d had a wank. A really long time since he’d been well enough for it to even enter his mind. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d relieved himself, actually. The bathroom was the only place you could go for privacy in the tent, so he had spent a lot of his mornings taking a little extra time in the shower to divest himself of his morning wood. It hadn’t even occurred to him since they got here, though. The last time he’d woken up aroused, he’d tried to hump a sleeping Hermione. The memory still made him burn with embarrassment and shame. But he felt good today, better than he had in so long, and he tightened his grip. 

Harry stroked himself again, feeling his cock stiffen in his hand, keen for some attention.  Sighing, he braced his legs apart and closed his eyes while he slid his length in and out of his fist, working himself slowly to full hardness. Picturing Ginny at Ron’s birthday party, he called to mind again the softness of her skin, the silky texture of her hair, the way she had smiled at him as she helped him steady himself when he stood up to fix his plate, her arm linked in his, pressed against his side. He thought of the very first time she’d kissed him, the look in her eyes then, and later down by the lake as they’d gotten to know each other a little more intimately without an audience or her brother looking on. Striking up a rhythm now, he pulled at a pace that built up his pleasure. 

Then he remembered her face as she came towards him in her bedroom to give him his birthday gift, when she pressed herself against him, backing him into the wall. He gripped his shaft tightly, working his hand faster over himself, becoming more excited by the familiar images he’d conjured, like he had so many times before in the shower, real memories blending seamlessly into fantasies. Envisioning what might’ve happened if Ron hadn’t interrupted them, that glorious encounter providing so much fodder for his imagination. 

Sliding her hands into his hair, over his chest, he pictured her grinding herself against him, her mouth at his neck, the heat of her lips and tongue sending chill bumps up his arms. He tilted his head back in the shower at the imagined feel of her lips and body pressed against him, his mouth open, and a moan of longing escaped his lips.

He’d grasp her hips to pull her into him and her hands would slide from his chest down his trembling stomach and over the fly of his jeans, cupping him, rubbing him through the rough fabric. His thumb glided across the head, around the sensitive rim, falling into a kind of mindless nirvana as he stroked himself more firmly, more enthusiastically, while working towards his completion.

She’d grasp his hand, slide it up from her waist to cover her breast while continuing to rub her palm over the straining bulge in his jeans, relaxing her head back and sighing as he begins to knead her firm flesh, running a thumb across the hardened nipple he can feel through the fabric of her bra. Her hair falls down her back in a curtain of flames as she arches into him, exposing the smooth pale skin of her neck to him like an offering, an invitation, and he leans down to her, running his tongue along the column of her throat as they continue to caress each other.

He groaned, squeezing his eyes closed and biting down on his lip, his movements becoming more frantic as his orgasm drew closer, completely in the grip of his fantasy now. He was close, getting so close now. 

She lifts her head again, her lips at his ear now, capturing the lobe between her teeth and biting down, mewling her desire as his body begins to shake against her with need. 

“Please don’t stop,” he pleads, panting into her hair, into the spray of the shower, as an echoing shudder wracks his limbs.

“Does it feel good, Harry?” she purrs in his ear, her warm breath making him shiver again, making him whine with excitement. The quality of her voice is something he’s never heard in it before, causing a thrill of desire to shoot through him like a bolt of electricity, leaving him tingling all over.

“Yes…yes,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“Tell me you want it,” she commands suddenly with a cruel laugh, squeezing him roughly, painfully, through his jeans.

Harry’s eyes flew open, his heart fluttering, tendrils of fear gripping him. He tried to blink away the images that were trying to push forward into his brain. Bellatrix’s fingers were around him, pumping him while he was strapped down to the table, her hand gliding over his straining erection while he arches up into her hand. 

“Tell me you want it,” she says, laughing.

“Noooooo. Please no,” he pleaded, though he couldn’t stop stroking himself now, too close to his release to stop. 

Harry tried desperately to pull away from those memories, squeezing his eyes closed, casting his mind around for any other image, but he couldn’t, she’d already corrupted his thoughts, infiltrated his fantasy. He was unable to hold them back now, to stop the rush of images flooding into him then. Images of her above him, his body in exquisite pain, her full, ripe breasts swaying as she rocked her hips against him, the nipples hardened, distended with pleasure, the darkened tips jutting out from her body. The feel of her lips then as they slid over his engorged prick, her moist heat all around him, the walls of her pussy squeezing him.

“Oh, God, no! Ginny… Ginny!” he chanted, trying frantically to return to her, his grip tightening painfully as he thrust into his fist more violently, trying to bring himself off quickly now, to end this fantasy turned nightmare. He was trembling all over, panting with exertion as his hips bucked wildly against his palm. “Please… please,” he begged, but his orgasm wouldn’t come, his mind fighting both for and against it, prolonging the agony while his tortured mind conjured more images for him, more fantasies.

He pictured her then where he’d longed for her to be, underneath him finally. Her hated face was swollen, turning purple, her hooded eyes wide with fear, gasping for breath as he pounded roughly into her, his hands around her throat in an iron grip, squeezing vice-like, while the other Death Eaters cheered and laughed. Harry cried out from the jolt of desire and revulsion that surged through him at the image, his heart pounding now in his chest. 

In desperation, he sucked in a breath and held it, until his body was straining against it. Until his vision started to dim and his knees buckled, unable to climax without the terror and thrill of asphyxiation coupled with this nightmare. He landed hard on his knees in the tub, but didn’t feel it. He wanted to howl in misery, but he couldn’t stop. He was so close, the lack of air making his dick throb in his hand, swelling in preparation for the orgasm that was rushing towards him. 

Visions flooded his mind again, from the first time she’d raped him, when she’d stolen his virginity and began her corruption of him. Her head was thrown back in pleasure as she gripped the chair he was tied to, riding him while her husband strangled him from behind. 

His lungs were screaming for air, the deprivation causing a roaring in his ears and his vision to go black. He squeezed his eyes shut and instinct kicked in then, his body’s need for oxygen forcing him to drag in a searing lungful of air. He finally came, exploding into orgasm, shuddering and gasping as he jerked in his hand. 

Images of Hermione after he’d raped her were now bombarding his aching, oxygen-starved brain. Cruel images of her chained to the wall, nude and violated, bleeding and sobbing in front of him while his orgasm spilled out of him over his fist. 

He was left crying in the aftermath, tears rolling down his cheeks, washed away by the water pelting him in the face as he knelt in the tub. He was trembling all over, too weak to move, panting from exertion, blind and deaf from the force of his orgasm, his head throbbing in pain. Then the blessed numbness began seeping into him in the wake of his ecstasy, the coldness consuming him like it had when that horrific potion had drained out of him. He remained there on his knees while the blackness filled his veins until, mercifully, he could feel nothing at all, until it had finally swallowed him whole.

 

* * *

 

Harry came slowly awake, feeling pleasantly warm, wrapped up in the blankets, completely cocooned in comfort. He took a few deep relaxing breaths before slowly opening his reluctant eyes, which felt heavy, along with the rest of his body. When his eyes adjusted, he pulled his head back sharply at finding Hermione nearly nose to nose with him, only to bump into Ron, who was pressed firmly against his back.

“Hey, mate,” Ron whispered when Harry stared up at him. “You all right?” he asked, peering into his eyes. 

Harry blinked, once, twice, before he could focus, before his mind could penetrate the thick fog in his brain and make sense of where he was. He continued to stare up at Ron in confusion for a minute. 

Was he all right? He tried to assess his condition. His brain felt sluggish, thick and foggy like he’d been drugged, but he wasn’t in any pain. He knew where he was and who they were. He finally nodded. But how had he gotten here? Why was he having a kip on the bed? And why were they here with him? 

“Wha’s happened?” he finally mumbled, staring around the room again before looking back at Hermione, who was watching him worriedly. 

Fear began to trickle into him at her expression, at his inability to recall what had landed him here, pressed between them. 

“That’s a question for you,” Ron responded.

What the hell did that mean? Had he blacked out or had some sort of fit, or something? Feeling dull witted, he pulled a hand out from under the blankets, wiped the sleep out of his eyes and scratched the side of his jaw trying to think, to make sense of this. Drawing a disconcerting blank, he finally looked back up to Ron for help.

“Why am I naked?” he asked slowly then, totally perplexed, asking the first question that came to his mind, or the one that had him the most baffled, the one that didn’t fit into any scenario he could think of. 

Ron smiled down at him.

“We found you in the shower, Harry,” Hermione explained. “Do you remember what happened? Did you have a vision or something?”

Harry turned to her, silent for a long time while he worked his mind backwards, trying to unravel the tight knot around the memories of how he’d come to find himself asleep between them and what came before. His head started to ache in warning as he drew near it. As soon as the first thread pulled loose, it all unraveled in a heap, spilling out into his mind in a painful rush that had him screwing up his face from the onslaught. He held his breath against the moan bubbling up in him, closed his eyes then and finally shook his head in response. 

“No,” he replied quietly when he could speak. It hadn’t been a vision. He wished like hell it was.

“Oh, Harry, what happened?” Hermione asked him with concern, but he just shook his now-throbbing head again. 

Harry couldn’t tell them. What was he supposed to say? That he’d come completely undone just trying to have a wank in the shower? That Bellatrix had fucked him over so badly that she’d stolen even that solitary joy from him? It had turned into some kind of horror show, his mind playing back for him _The Best of: Dungeon Scenes from Malfoy Manor_ while he worked to get off. Jesus Christ, he was a complete mess!

He continued to lie between them with his eyes closed while Hermione carded her fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. The headache now an aching deep in his brain that seemed to radiate outward to stab behind his eyes, to push against his skull, so much pressure he feared it would pop his eardrums.

“I don’t know what happened, Harry, but you nearly gave me a heart attack. I swear you’re not going into that bathroom alone again,” Ron told him, and he opened his eyes, tilting his head back somewhat awkwardly to look up at him. “It’s like a fucking deathtrap for you. I think it must be cursed or something. You scared the shit out of us again and it’s really starting to piss me off.” 

Harry frowned up at him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, feeling like shit for what he continued to put them through. “I couldn’t help it.” Harry felt like he was splintering apart. He couldn’t seem to hold together the pieces of himself that had broken off, crumbled away, or been ripped out of him in the dungeon. He wasn’t able to fuse them back together again strongly enough to bear up for very long. It felt like trying to hold sand in his fists.

Ron nodded at him sympathetically. “I know,” he whispered.

“I couldn’t make it stop, Ron,” he tried explaining then, trying to make Ron understand how helpless he was to stop the numbness paralyzing him where he’d knelt in the bottom of the tub, unable to fight it off, to keep it from seeping into his flesh and into his mind until he felt nothing at all. “I think I may be falling apart,” he confessed quietly.

Ron squeezed his eyes closed, looking like he was in pain before he finally opened them again to stare down at him. “It’s okay, Harry. Hermione and I will help hold you together,” he said reassuringly.

Then he did something so unexpected, catching Harry so off guard that he had no time to react. Ron leaned down to him and kissed him!

Harry heard Hermione give a little gasp of surprise as Ron drew near him, but he was just so startled, so taken aback, still feeling all out of sorts, slow and lethargic as if he were under the effects of a calming potion, that he did nothing at all to prevent it except utter his own tiny squeak of astonishment a moment before Ron’s lips were on his. When shock or madness kept Harry from immediately pulling away, Ron slanted his mouth over his own more firmly, to deepen the kiss, bracing the back of Harry’s neck with his hand, tilting his unresisting, throbbing head towards Ron’s body to hold him in place. Then Ron ended the kiss and pulled up slightly to stare down at him. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” he announced, looking stunned himself at what he’d just done, still holding Harry by the head, which felt too heavy for him to manage on his own. 

Harry, for his part, merely stared dumbfounded back up at Ron, his feeble mind completely unable to process what just happened.

“I said I wanted dinner, or something, before I let you take advantage of me,” Harry finally muttered, still feeling bewildered, nervous, and now stupid, too, trying to make light of the awkwardness that surrounded them in the aftermath of what had just occurred, while his brain continued to push relentlessly against his skull.

“Shut up,” Ron replied with a quick, lopsided smirk, leaning down to him again.

Harry had no idea what he was doing, why he was letting this happen as Ron captured his lips for a second time, apparently deciding his initial experiment had been a success. But he didn’t like blokes, Harry reminded himself. He was pretty sure Ron didn’t either, since he was shagging Hermione. And Harry was in love with Ginny, Ron’s sister! But he didn’t know how to stop this, his mind still not fully comprehending, unable to grasp what was going on here or why. His body was still so heavy that he continued to lay limp and unresisting, held firmly in Ron’s arms.

Ron ran his tongue along Harry’s lower lip then and they parted, his mouth opening automatically, reflexively for him. Ron growled, the sound a low rumbling in his throat as his tongue invaded Harry’s mouth at the perceived invitation. Yielding completely to him, Harry surrendered instinctively to Ron’s slow exploration of his mouth, utterly compliant in his grip. He heard Hermione give another little moan of surprise as Ron took control of him.

Ginny had said it looked like Ron was eating Lavender’s face, the way they had snogged in the common room, but it didn’t feel like that at all. It was… Oh, God!  It certainly seemed as if Ron had gotten some practice in with her, perfected his technique. Holy Hell! 

He’d never been kissed by a man before, and Ron’s tongue was more demanding, his lips more urgent, more forceful than Ginny’s or Cho’s had been. The kiss was more carnal than anything he’d ever experienced before. Harry could do nothing but hold on, clutching at the blankets now to anchor himself as Ron plundered his mouth while Hermione’s hands began traveling over his bare chest and down his ribs. He was whimpering into Ron’s mouth in both fear and longing, his body sandwiched between the two of them, naked and vulnerable. 

Explosions were going off in his head, making him dizzy as he continued to submit completely to Ron. Every swipe of Ron’s tongue sent a stab of fire straight to Harry’s cock and a jolt of pain to his brain, making him lightheaded, making him moan in both pleasure and pain.

His body suddenly felt so starved for them, for their lips and hands, for the warmth he was wicking away from them, drawing it into his own body like a sponge. It built in him, warming his insides and then spread outwards to his limbs. He hadn’t been touched, hadn’t been kissed since his birthday in Ginny’s bedroom, not like this, maybe not at all.

“Tell me what you want, Harry,” Ron whispered into his ear as he released his mouth finally to breathe. His words sent chill bumps down Harry’s spine, leaving him panting for breath, his head thumping to the rapid beat of his heart. “Tell me what you need, and it’s yours,” he promised.

 _Oh, Jesus!_   Harry thought he might have tried to say something then, but it was totally incoherent, probably some form of wretched begging. Then Hermione turned his head back towards her, sliding her hands over his jaw, rough with stubble, to grasp him on both sides of his face. Taking her turn, she pressed herself against him and captured his mouth for her own before he could even offer up a defense, his mind still reeling from the heady confusion of Ron’s lips on his, at the unexpected longing that had flared inside him from his touch. 

Her kiss sent his head spinning and desire coiling in his gut as she pressed him further into Ron, who clutched at his bare hip, holding Harry more firmly against him. He heard Ron groan in approval, and then his teeth were on the cord of Harry’s neck. The sensation was driving him mad. He was tingling all over, as if his body was finally coming out of its heavy sedation, waking up with his arousal, yearning for more of them. Writhing between both of their warm bodies, Harry quaked with need, moaning wantonly. Hermione’s smaller tongue was now circling his, coaxing it back into her own mouth as Ron continued to work his lips and teeth and tongue over Harry’s neck. 

Rocking into his backside, Ron pressed his arousal into the cleft of Harry’s arse, forcing him to rub his budding erection against Hermione’s jean clad thigh. Warning bells were going off in his brain. Shaking all over now, wild with lust for them both, he was mewling like a kitten between them utterly shamelessly. He couldn’t help it. The engine inside him had come to life again, roaring in his chest, his whole body vibrating with it.

Harry didn’t know what madness had come over him. He was surely cracking up. He’d told Ron he thought he was falling apart. Now he was certain of it. He didn’t know any longer if this was real, or just some bizarre, heavily sexualized dream his fractured mind had concocted. A kinky, erotic wet dream he’d immersed himself in to hold off the reality of what had happened to him in the bathroom. 

Harry had never desired Ron before. Never! But he sure as hell wanted him right now! Whatever madness that had taken hold of him had obviously infected Ron, too, because it was clear that he was more than interested right back. He’d been fighting his desire for Hermione for a while now. It was only natural, he reasoned. She was the only female in the house, and he already had carnal knowledge of her. It was to be expected that he would want to experience her again, to feel the warm tight heat of her all around him again. The sensation perfectly preserved in his mind, though he’d tried to shut it out, filled with shame and self-loathing at the memory of it.

He wanted desperately to take what they were offering him, yet he was terrified at the same time. Terrified of giving himself over to it, of what it would mean for all of them if he did. At how much damage would be wrought on their friendship if he let this continue. But, God, he craved it so badly. He wanted the comfort of them. He wanted to share in the intimacy they had with each other, but he couldn’t. It was selfish. It was wrong. He was trying to steal it from them, to suck it out of them, and they were so blind to it that they’d let him take it from them. They’d let the demon inside him suck their happiness away; drain them of it, like a leech, like a parasite. He’d become a cancer, not just on them, but on everyone around him, slowly destroying them all, eating away at them. Harry couldn’t let it happen. He had to stop this while he still could.

“I need…” he began on a strangled sob, fighting against his raging desire, against his own will as he pulled away from Hermione. “I can’t do this… you’ve got to move out,” he panted, his voice full of agony. “I need both of you to move out of this room. Now!”

“What?”

“Harry, please—”

“You can’t stay here anymore,” he cried, burying his face in the mattress and curling into a tight ball between them. “Get away from me!”

“Harry, you can’t mean that,” Ron argued, stroking his bare back soothingly. His fingers traced the path of Harry’s curved spine, making him moan, trembling as his skin prickled with gooseflesh at Ron’s touch.

“Go. Please… just go,” Harry implored them, his voice muffled against the sheets. “Please, I’m begging you.” His head felt like it was going to explode now, his eyes watering from the pain, the pressure so intense he thought he might vomit.

“We just got carried away,” Ron tried again to placate him. “I’m sorry, Harry, you’re right, we were moving too fast. We’ll take it more slowly, okay?”

“No,” he moaned, shaking his head. “No, I can’t… I can’t do this. I don’t want this. Please, just leave me alone.”

They were both silent then, frozen on the bed. Then Hermione spoke, her voice calm and low as if he were a wild animal she was trying to soothe. “All right, Harry, we’ll move out if you really want us to, but you’re not staying in this room alone. We’ll all move to the rooms we had before. Ron and I will take the room Ginny and I shared, and you can have the old one you and Ron shared, but you’re not staying in here. Not by yourself, okay?” she told him as she slid off the bed.

“No,” Ron argued angrily.

“Ron, please,” she pleaded with him. “You can’t push him into this. Harry has the right to say no.”

“Fine,” he growled, getting to his feet as well. Then both of them waited for Harry, apparently serious about not leaving him in here alone. Not even for a minute. 

Harry stayed there, curled in a ball for a few minutes, the room totally silent while they waited stubbornly for him. Finally he spoke. “Can I maybe get some clothes first, please?”

Hermione grabbed her bag from the side table and dropped it on the bed. Sitting up then, the blanket falling to his waist as he hunched over the bag, he fished around inside until he came up with something to wear. He lay back again to slide his boxers on under the blanket, trying to preserve what was left of his modesty, though he’d just been grinding nude against them both a moment before. When he’d worked them over his hips, he sat up and pulled on the shirt he’d dug out of the bag, and then tugged on socks before he slid out of the bed on the same side as Ron to crawl into his jeans. He kept his eyes down as Ron and Hermione watched him dress silently, flushing with embarrassment.  

Ron stepped close to him then, reaching for the bag he’d left on the bed, and Harry jerked away from him instinctively. Stilling, Ron turned to frown up at Harry before pulling the bag to him and straightening up. Harry’s heart was pounding again, his head throbbing, as they all stood there in awkward silence.

“Are we ready then?” Hermione asked finally, breaking the weighty silence. 

Ron nodded his head and came around to stand next to her with a heavy sigh, picking up his wand from the side table. Harry continued to stand there a few more moments, reluctant to leave.  

The truth was, he didn’t want to move out of Sirius’ bedroom. It had started to feel like home to him here. But he could understand their concern, and he certainly never wanted to go back into that bathroom again. 

He sighed too, finally coming around where they stood to get his own wand and journal. They waited in continued silence for him as he skirted the bed to get around them to the table. Ron’s ears went red, and he reached down to collect Harry’s things for him. Harry flinched at the sudden movement.

“Stop it!” Ron barked abruptly, making Harry flinch again, even more violently. “Stop acting like if you get too close to me you might accidentally trip and fall onto my dick, or something.”

“Ronald!” Hermione screeched in outrage.

“Well,” he growled angrily. “He keeps acting like I’m going to attack him!” Then he turned back to Harry. “I’m not going to run at you, you know? I didn’t force you… I would never.”  He paused, taking a deep breath to calm down. “You wanted that, too. You participated in it, enjoyed it even. I know it,” he accused. “But if you’re not ready, if you don’t want me to touch you right now, I won’t. Just stop flinching when I get near you. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m never going to hurt you, Harry,” he promised, and then he sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, I swear it.”

Harry stared at him for a long time, his mouth turned down in a frown. Then he finally nodded. “M’sorry,” he whispered. “But I can’t do this, Ron. It’s a mistake… it’s wrong.”

“I don’t believe that, and I don’t think you do either.”

Ron was irritating him now, the pain in his head making him cross. “You’re blind, both of you. You don’t want me. You’re just acting out of pity, and I don’t want it!” he spat. “You can keep it.”

“Fuck you!” Ron shot back angrily.

“A brilliant argument, Ron, very succinct,” he mocked, watching as Ron’s ears went red again. “You’ve been in love with Hermione for years. Are you going to tell me you’ve felt that way about me all this time, too? That it hasn’t just been in the last few weeks or days that it’s been different?  That’s pity… or… or guilt or gratitude or something, but it isn’t love!” he yelled, waving his hands around angrily. “And you,” he said, turning to Hermione and pointing an accusing finger at her anguished face. “If you’ve wanted me all this time, why didn’t we get it on back in the tent after Ron left, huh?  Or hell, while he was still there, I guess, since we’re obviously all so horny for each other.”

“I don’t know what brought it on, all right?” Ron interrupted. “But I’m not sorry I acted on it.”

“You don’t really want me, either of you. This whole experience has made us all crazy.” 

“Harry, that’s not true...”

“I’m broken, Ron!”

“No, you’re not! We can fix you. Hermione and I can help you, if you’ll let us,” he argued.

Harry’s anger flared at the idiocy of that statement, at Ron’s naiveté. As if a simple _Reparo_ could fix all that was wrong with him, as if it could return all the fractured pieces of him to their proper places.

“Do you know what it’s like to have the stuff of your nightmares be the stuff of your fantasies, too? Do you know how fucked up that is? Every touch, every sexual thought brings up a memory of something horrible. Something I did… to her,” Harry bellowed, pointing at Hermione again, who was standing open mouthed now, “or was done to me by that fucking bitch and her friends.” He gripped his head then, clutching it in his hands to keep it from splitting open. “I can’t even masturbate without images and memories of her flooding my mind. That’s what sent me into a black hole today. You wanted to know… well, that’s what it was. I was just trying to have a normal morning wank in the shower, like any other bloke,” he admitted with a humorless laugh. 

“Harry, I’m—”

“Do you want to know what it feels like to picture the person you hate most in this world and get an erection from it? Do you want to know how it feels to be in total agony and still have your enemy pull orgasm after orgasm out of you? It was different with Greyback and the others, Ron, they just wanted to hurt me, humiliate me. Yes, they raped me, but they didn’t make me come. They just used me. I was just a vessel for their depravity. They didn’t make me participate in it, enjoy it.” He started keening in agony then, panting, dizzy with the pain from the mounting pressure in his skull.

“Harry!” Hermione called in alarm as he staggered, sitting back down on the bed and wiping away blood from his nose.

“Shit,” he groaned.

“We need to call Madame Pomfrey!”

“No!” he yelled. “It’s just a headache. Don’t you dare call her here!” he warned her threateningly, pinching his nose closed and tilting his head back to stop the flow of blood. “It’s no big deal, a simple nose bleed, and she won’t thank you for rushing her over here for that,” he insisted.  

Hermione pursed her lips together, staring uncertainly at him for a bit before finally sighing and nodding her head in reluctant agreement. Ron walked into the bathroom and returned with a handful of tissue that he held out to Harry. He stared at Ron a minute and then reached up and pulled it from his hand.

“Thanks,” he said thickly, pressing the wad of tissue to his nose while they watched him, all of them awkwardly silent in the wake of his startling confession. When the bleeding had stopped, he wadded up the bloody tissue in his fist and got back to his feet.

“Harry,” Ron started again, as if intermission was over now, as if they’d called an injury time out when Harry’s nose started to bleed. Harry gritted his teeth in frustration. 

“Hermione and I love you, you have to know that. We just want to be with you.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you let me touch her? Why would you let me get anywhere near her again? I... I raped her, Ron. I stole something from her that I can’t ever give back. I took her by force, and you’re just going to hand her right back to me? Just open your arms to me? Do you know how fucked up that is?” he asked incredulously, feeling so damned weary as he turned back to Hermione again, staring at her shocked face. He wanted to wound, to push them away for good now, to end this, because his head was still throbbing in pain and his resistance was weakening. 

“You’ve got Stockholm Syndrome or something,” he told her. “You think you love me, but it’s just some warped delusion. I forced myself on you, Hermione. I raped you.” She flinched, and he raised his voice in response, digging in deeper. “I fucked you up against the wall while you cried into my shoulder! I took away your will. I took what I wanted from you, and I didn’t stop because it felt so damn good, even though I knew I was hurting you,” he growled viciously, his chest heaving while he shuddered with revulsion, belying his words. 

She swung then, striking him hard across the cheekbone with her open palm. The slap cracked loudly in the room, jerking his head to the side. The force of it burst a blood vessel under his eye and made him see stars as it rattled his aching brain. It took him by surprise because he was expecting the blow to come from Ron. 

Grunting in pain, he staggered back against the bed. Then he straightened back up, holding his hand against his burning cheek. His nose dripping blood again, Harry stared at her, blinking in shock. Tears were rolling down her face at his deliberate cruelty. It made his heart break for her and made him burn with shame for the pain he’d caused her. 

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he apologized brokenly, unable to hurt her anymore, unable to follow through as his own eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t mean that… I didn’t mean any of that.”

“I know,” she cried, nodding her head and sniffling back more tears. 

He reached a hand out to her, and she grasped it, squeezing his fingers a moment before releasing them. His arm fell back to his side, and then he replaced it over his aching cheek. Harry wanted to take her in his arms, to hold her to him, to take back his words, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, they all continued to stand there; Ron still red faced and furious but silent, Hermione still battling back tears, and Harry back to dabbing at his nose with the soiled tissue, still holding his flaming cheek with the other hand. Then Hermione turned and walked from the room without another word. Ron waited for him to go first as if he were afraid Harry would lock himself in if he left before him. After another minute of them silently watching each other, Harry grabbed his things and reluctantly left the room, Ron following behind.

Hermione stood in front of the door of the bedroom he and Ron had shared during the summer before his fifth year. He walked past her into his new room, moving to the bed farthest from the door, and set his wand and journal on the side table. Then he removed his glasses, folded them and set them on top of the journal, before he lay down on the bed and curled up on his side, facing the wall.

“Harry?” she called tentatively when he’d settled on the bed. “Will you take a pain potion?” she asked, and when he didn’t respond, she added, “Please?” 

He shook his head. He heard her sigh and turn from the room, leaving the door open. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath. The smell of the two of them lingered on his skin as if it were permanently burned into his nostrils. His head ached with their absence, grieving their loss, his body cold without them. Yearning for them both, he finally fell back into a fitful sleep.

When he woke up again, it was late afternoon. His stomach was growling with hunger, but his headache had finally subsided to a dull ache. He sat up and pulled on his glasses, feeling disoriented again for a moment at finding himself in an unfamiliar place. He was startled to find Remus sitting on the other bed, watching him.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” Lupin greeted him in his soft hoarse voice. “You’re making quite a fashion statement with that hairstyle.” Harry reached up and ran a hand through his hair, which was standing up in all directions. “I don’t even think James could’ve competed with that unruly mop.”

He frowned, and Lupin grinned at him, rising from the bed and coming over to re-seat himself on the end of Harry’s bed. 

“What’s happened to your face?” he asked in concern when he got a closer look at Harry.

Harry placed a hand to his cheek, poking around on it with the tips of his fingers. It was puffy, swollen and tender across the bone and under the eye. Hermione had caught him in just the right spot so that it would blacken his eye spectacularly.

 _Brilliant_ , he thought. That way, she’d be sure to be reminded of the horrible things he’d said to her every time she looked at him for the next several days until it faded. Still, if Ron had let loose on him, he’d be in a lot worse shape. He’d probably still be unconscious or spitting out teeth. Not that he didn’t have it coming to him, of course. The idea of having to confess to Remus that Hermione had slapped him senseless made him cringe, though, and also feel slightly hysterical at what must be going through Lupin’s mind. The reality of what was really going on here was even more absurd than he could possibly imagine.

“S’nuthin’. I just managed to offend someone else and got walloped for it again. I’m quite good at it, if you’ll remember,” he answered wryly, hoping Lupin wouldn’t pursue it further.

“You should get some ice on it to try and minimize the damage,” he advised. 

Harry nodded, and they went silent for a moment. 

“Besides the shiner and that… uh, hair,” he said, his lips quirking, “you look much improved from when I last saw you.”

“You, too,” Harry replied. “If I remember it right, Madame Pomfrey worked on you quite as much as she did on me the last time you were here.”

“Indeed, she did. Are you feeling well, though, are you ill?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I just had a bad headache earlier. I was sleeping it off, is all. I’m feeling better now except for being hungry. I think I missed both breakfast and lunch.” He felt shaky and slightly queasy from the combination of his empty stomach and the lingering threads of his headache.

“Would you like Dobby to bring you a sandwich, perhaps? You don’t need to miss any more meals, you know.”

“I think your parenting instincts are starting to kick in, Remus,” he joked. “How is Tonks, by the way?”

“She’s well, Harry. Very near term now so I’m sticking close to home. It’s been a difficult pregnancy, what with all that’s going on in the world,” he said with a wave of his hand.  “Also, I don’t know if you know, but they found her father’s body a short while back, and it’s been terribly hard on Dora and her mother.” 

A jolt passed through Harry at this revelation. “I… I didn’t know, Remus. I’m so sorry.”

Remus nodded.

“I only met him that one time when Hagrid and I crash landed in their pond when we fled my relatives’ house. He was very kind to me… patched me up. We ran across them, Hermione, Ron, and I, while we were in the tent, though they didn’t know we were there. He was travelling with two goblins, another wizard and a classmate of ours, Dean Thomas. Do you know if they’re…”

“One of the goblins was also killed, Gornuk, I believe, as well as the other wizard, Dirk Cresswell. Dean and the second goblin appear to have escaped.” 

Harry sagged in relief at the news about Dean. For some reason he didn’t think he could bear it today if he’d been killed. He thought of the conversations they’d overheard between the wizards and goblins by the stream that day. It was the day that Ron left, when they’d had that huge row and he’d stormed from the tent, Hermione running after him. 

Finally Lupin spoke again when it appeared that Harry had nothing to say. “Hermione asked Ginny to get word to me that you all were requesting a visit from me, Harry?” he prompted.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Harry agreed, finally realizing why Lupin had come. “We needed to ask you, or rather, Tonks’ mum… I can understand if she’s too upset… but we needed to ask her something.”

“I know.  I’ve been here a while, actually, waiting for you to wake up, and have already discussed with Ron and Hermione the reasons for your request,” he interrupted. “I don’t think Andromeda will be of any assistance to you, however. She’s been estranged from her sisters for many years now, Harry.”

“I didn’t think so, but it was worth a shot.”

“I don’t suppose you can fill me in on why you’re looking for information about the location of Bellatrix Lestrange’s home?” he asked.

Harry flinched at her name. Remus searched Harry’s face at his reaction, but said nothing.

“No, I can’t, Remus, I’m sorry,” he finally replied.

Lupin nodded his head. “Yes, Hermione already said as much, but as you say, it was worth a shot.” 

Harry snorted softly, and Lupin grinned at him again. Then he called Dobby, who appeared immediately beside the bed. Lupin requested some sandwiches for Harry, and a short time later, the elf reappeared with a large platter loaded down with a huge assortment of sandwiches and biscuits, followed immediately after with a pitcher of pumpkin juice.

“Thanks, Dobby,” Harry said in some amusement at the sheer lengths to which Dobby went to please him. Still, he was hungry enough that he might eat them all. Lupin selected a sandwich for himself and Harry grabbed one off the top, both of them eating silently for a while. Harry polished off three before he got up the courage to ask Lupin what was weighing heavily on him.

“Remus,” he started, his voice low, staring at his hands now. “You told me about… about Greyback… and about what he did to you.” He paused, taking a deep breath, picking crumbs out of his lap so he didn’t have to look his mentor in the eyes as Lupin nodded. “How did you get past it? How do you overcome being… being raped?”

Remus was silent a long time before he finally spoke. “I don’t know that you do, Harry. You just have to pick yourself up and move on.” 

“What if you can’t? What if you can’t get up from that?”

“You lean on those close to you to help you. Ron and Hermione, the Weasley's, and me, who love you and will always support you.”

“Does Tonks know?” Harry asked then. “Did you tell her what happened to you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“What if there are secrets you can’t tell them? Would you tell them even if they’d leave you if they knew? What if you were a monster, Remus?” he whispered, tears starting to fall into his lap. 

Remus scooted closer to Harry, but to his credit, did not attempt to touch him. “I _am_ a monster, Harry, but the bites you sustained… you aren’t truly infected with lycanthropy. I have explained—”

“No, I know, it’s not that,” Harry interrupted, wiping at his eyes. “But they made me do things, Remus. They made me hurt… people. They turned me into something horrible.” He was shaking again, falling apart in front of Lupin, but he needed somebody to confide in, someone besides Ron and Hermione, someone who understood about what he’d gone through, parts of it, anyway. “Have you ever bitten anybody during the full moon? Did you ever hurt anybody like that, even if you didn’t mean to, when you couldn’t help it? Did you ever hurt somebody you loved?”

Harry could feel Lupin’s eyes on him, but he continued to stare at his hands, too ashamed to look him in the face. 

“No, Harry. I have been very lucky.”

“Everyone’s dying because of me. Because I can’t get past this, and I don’t know what to do. I’m trying, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t want anyone else to die for me.”

“Everyone isn’t dying because of you, Harry, or for you. They’re dying for what’s right, for what they believe in. Even if there were no Harry Potter, no Chosen One, they’d all still be fighting against The Dark Lord and what he stands for.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it. I think I’m going to fail,” Harry confessed.

“What is it that you’re trying to do, Harry? Why can’t you confide it in me? Why can’t you let the Order help you?” Remus asked him pleadingly.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Dumbledore wanted it kept secret. I can’t tell you. Only Ron and Hermione can know. But I think I’m already dead, Remus, it just hasn’t found me yet. I’m not afraid of it anymore, but I don’t want it to find Ron and Hermione, too.” He looked up then, finally, reaching out to grasp at the sleeve of Lupin’s robes, feeling suddenly frantic. “Help me, Mooney! Help me get Ron and Hermione out of here. Take them with you, get them over to Muriel’s, where they’ll be safe with the rest of Ron’s family,” Harry begged him then, knowing Lupin must think he’d gone completely mad now. “We’ll stun them if we have to.  Please, Remus!” 

Lupin’s mouth fell open at the fear and panic in Harry’s voice, at the terror in his eyes as he clung to him. “Harry, you can’t take their choice away from them. It’s not for you to decide.”

“Please!” he pleaded. “If you could have saved my mum and dad, if you could have saved Sirius, wouldn’t you have done it? If you had known your fate, the fates of your friends, wouldn’t you have intervened to stop it?”

Lupin looked stunned. “I… I …” he stuttered, speechless, as if Harry had knocked the wind out of him. “Yes, I suppose I would have,” he finally admitted. “But Harry, you need them. Whatever it is you’re doing, you can’t do it on your own. You can’t stop them from trying to help you. Don’t you remember Sirius? Don’t you remember that Dumbledore tried to keep him here safe, just like he tried to do with your parents, just like your parents tried to do for you? Just like you’re trying now with Ron and Hermione? It won’t work, Harry. They won’t stand for it.”

Harry shook his head in denial of Lupin’s words, still searching for a way out of this for them. He felt so afraid he was leading them all to their doom. So terrified of Bellatrix, of coming face to face with her, that he was dissolving into pieces at the mere thought.

“Don’t push your friends away, Harry. I made that mistake recently. I tried to push away the people that I love. I tried to run away from them. Some swotty young man told me what a coward I was for it, too. And that man was right,” he said, smiling sadly at Harry. “From one fool to another, Harry, trust your instincts. They’re nearly always right. But this is your fear talking, your love for them clouding your judgment.” 

Harry released Lupin’s robes, letting his hands fall back into his lap. Defeated, finally, he nodded his head in acceptance, and Remus let out a relieved breath. Probably thankful he wasn’t going to have to stun Harry to get away from him.

“I have faith in you, Harry,” Remus told him then. “I know the kind of stock you come from. I’ve watched you overcome huge obstacles before now. You can overcome this, too. That’s why Dora and I have chosen you as godfather for our child.” 

It took a moment for his words to sink in. “What?” Harry yelped finally in stunned surprise. “Me? You can’t be serious.”

“We’ve quite agreed. There’s no one better. No one we’d trust more to look after him or her if we’re not able,” he said, beaming at Harry, as if he’d been bursting to tell him this news since they’d arrived at Grimmauld Place.

Harry felt overwhelmed, astonished. “I… I don’t know what to say, Remus,” he confessed.

“Say yes.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, but Lupin just continued to smile at him. “Yeah—all right—of course I will,” he finally agreed. 

Beaming, Lupin shook Harry’s hand then, clasping him on the shoulder.

“Cor blimey!” Harry said after a few minutes, still totally flabbergasted, feeling winded, but the overwhelming fear that had been weighing him down all day had finally eased some. It had stopped gripping him so tightly that he couldn’t breathe, and he relaxed for the first time that day, the remnants of the headache finally receding completely. 

He agreed to return to the drawing room with Lupin, stopping in the bathroom first, where he ended up taking longer than expected to examine the shiner Hermione had given him, and to wet down his hair because he looked completely absurd. He didn’t know how anybody had kept a straight face around him all day. 

Remus smirked at him when he entered the room a few minutes later with damp hair. “Much better,” he announced. “Oh, and I told Ron and Hermione, I love the changes you’ve made to this space. It’s my favorite room of the house now. I don’t know why Sirius didn’t do something like this to this old place when it was headquarters for the Order. I think he would have enjoyed being here so much more if he had,” he said, sounding wistful.

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione nervously, hovering near the door. There was some uncomfortable tension between the three of them that Lupin seemed oblivious to. Hermione winced when she saw what she’d done to his face, and Ron watched him apprehensively as he made his way to one of the chairs finally, and sat down. 

When Lupin departed, Harry was left clearheaded for the first time all day. He, Ron, and Hermione had called an uneasy truce of sorts, though they were all still careful not to touch each other and their conversations were awkward and felt forced, uncomfortably cordial. 

When they’d gone to bed that night, Harry returned to the bed in the far corner of the room while Ron and Hermione took the room across the hall. His door remained open as a concession to them, and they did the same. He was still desperately lonely for them, but he could set it aside now that there was some distance between them, now that time from this morning’s events had settled and given him more perspective. 

Settling onto his back, Harry thought over his next move. Hermione had confided to him finally what she’d learned this morning, before he’d thrown a spanner in the works of their day, before everything went pear shaped. They knew now, perhaps, the town where the Lestrange family hailed, but they needed more information than that. Harry thought he might have one more alternative, one more person that would, perhaps, help him… if he could trust him.

~ . ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please. Did you really think it was going to be that easy?  
> -G


	26. Enemies and Allies

Draco felt a subtle pressure in his head, pushing against his Occlumency shield. Glancing up from his place at the table, his eyes briefly flicked to his mother, quickly enough to catch her eye for a fleeting moment before she looked away again. He returned his just as hurriedly to his plate, his food now stone cold and barely touched. The gravy had started to congeal, and its gelatinous appearance made his stomach turn. He’d long since given up finishing his dinner, but his manners dictated that he remain at the table until everyone had completed their meal. Of course, his civility was lost on their current houseguests, he realized with disdain. Most of the Death Eaters he was surrounded by were barbarians whose only ambition was to murder, rape, or pillage as many muggles, muggleborns, and blood traitors as possible. Those were a class of people which Draco had no love for either, but the Death Eaters’ actions had nothing to do with blood purity or wizarding supremacy and everything to do with blood sport, for which he’d learned very quickly he wasn’t well suited.  He’d been bred for command, not combat.

The quick glance at the head of the table was enough for him to confirm his mother as the culprit when the spell was broken and the pressure in his skull receded as soon as she turned her eyes away. But she wasn’t the only one who attempted to gain entry to his thoughts these days. The Dark Lord frequently attempted to probe his mind, too, which was why Draco almost always kept his eyes down and his head empty as a sign of his subservience to the powerful wizard. Showing only abject fear in the man’s presence was something the Dark Lord expected of him anyway and which wouldn’t draw his suspicion or ire. He thought Draco a coward, like a frightened child clinging to his mother’s skirt, which suited Draco just fine. He had no desire to have him think otherwise, now or ever. The less attention the Dark Lord paid him meant a greater chance of survival, and that was all Draco could hope for at this point.

His curiosity had gotten the better of him, his need to identify the person poking around in his head, and it overrode his instinct to remain invisible in Lord Voldemort’s presence. He regretted his glance to the head of the table, almost immediately. Seeing the Dark Lord sitting in his father’s chair, with his aunt on his right and his mother on his left, even for that brief moment, caused Draco to grit his teeth in fury. 

The sisters were widowed now, their husbands murdered by Potter or because of him. Both women had been taken then by Voldemort as his concubines. The idea made Draco seethe with rage and disgust, and the Dark Lord knew it. He knew Draco despised seeing his mother in such a degrading position. She was a Black, a Malfoy, a woman of stature and nobility, with pure blood and proper wizarding pride, and yet the Dark Lord had claimed her as if she were a common whore to be traded or bartered. Draco’s outrage was hard to contain. Only his strong sense of self-preservation held him in his seat. Even if he no longer cared for his own fate, he couldn’t leave his mother here alone now that his father was gone.

To further inflame Draco, the Dark Lord insisted he join them at the head of the table for meals when Voldemort was at the manor, instead of letting him hide himself among the other Death Eaters who were present. He insisted Draco sit with them to complete the picture of his twisted familial dinner, amused by the repugnance which Draco couldn’t sufficiently hide. 

His mother, of course, bore her new status and all it entailed stoically, regally, as always, instructing him by her example. But Bellatrix seemed almost transported by her new position, at finding herself so much in the Dark Lord’s favor. Thrilled to be so close to him, to be taken into his confidences and into his bed, eager to satisfy his carnal needs as if it were all she’d ever desired. Draco was sure the reverence she held for him was the closest thing to love Bellatrix had ever experienced, and she believed, foolishly, that the Dark Lord actually cared for her in return, but Draco’s blinders had finally come off. He understood that this was just another way in which Voldemort conveyed his contempt for their family, further eroding their social status and influence.

He knew his mother’s effort to break into his mind hadn’t been to read his thoughts. She was merely testing him. She checked constantly to see if his mind was guarded, always ensuring he maintained his vigilance. Trying to protect him, she worked to strengthen his shields, attempting to find cracks in his defenses, to worm her way in or catch him relaxed and unguarded. She had helped him to perfect his Occlumency skills once the Dark Lord had taken up residence in their home, or taken ownership of it, in reality.

The last few years had been a nightmare for Draco that just continued to get worse as the Dark Lord’s power increased. Living in constant fear now, his home had become his prison as Voldemort’s disdain for his father escalated and the ridicule and humiliation began. Once he embarked on his systematic destruction of everything Draco cared for, all of their lives became a living hell, for which there was no way out.

He’d felt so much pride when the Dark Lord had marked him and then entrusted him with the task of killing Dumbledore. He’d been taught to revere the man, to worship him with the same kind of zealous furor as his aunt displayed. Draco believed the Dark Lord was showing him favor, showing faith in him when he’d given him Death Eater status while he was still at Hogwarts, making him possibly the youngest wizard to ever enter the Dark Lord’s service. Then to be further honored by being assigned such a prestigious task, to be given the opportunity to seek revenge for his father’s defeat and subsequent imprisonment, it was more than Draco could have dreamed. But he’d been a fool, blind to the understanding that Voldemort never intended for him to succeed, that he’d set Draco the task as punishment for his father’s mishandling at the Ministry. Torturing his parents with the fear that Draco would fail and be killed by Dumbledore, the Dark Lord had used him as a pawn, as a throwaway game piece. He was an expendable Death Eater. That realization had left him bitter, disenchanted. 

And, of course, he had failed, just as the Dark Lord expected, as he’d planned, but Snape had completed the task for him. His mother had made the professor promise, coerced him into making the Unbreakable Vow to protect Draco again from his own foolishness, his own fate. Snape had murdered Dumbledore on the top of the tower when Draco was unable to and then fled with him and the others. 

The Dark Lord was delighted, naturally, that Dumbledore was dead, but incensed that Draco had not done it himself or died in the attempt, livid that Snape had interceded on his behalf. They’d both been punished swiftly and cruelly, Draco castigated in front of his parents, humiliated in front of the other Death Eaters. His mother had stood rigid, straight-backed next to his father while Draco screamed and begged for mercy, causing the one and only break he’d ever seen in her stone façade as she closed her eyes to keep from witnessing his punishment. 

But this wasn’t how things were meant to be. This wasn’t the grand plan that Draco had bought into. The Dark Lord was supposed to reign victorious. He was going to lead the wizards out of hiding and create a utopian pureblood society, forming a new ruling class, with wizards taking their rightful place of power. And they, his faithful Death Eaters, would be honored for their service to him. Instead, his father had been murdered brutally and without honor, with Draco and his mother forced to watch. Neither of them had been allowed to grieve for him. 

“Is the meal not up to your standards, Draco?” the Dark Lord asked, his voice high pitched and cold, a hissing quality to it that made all the hairs on Draco’s arms stand on end. He glanced up again immediately, his face draining of color at being addressed directly.

“My son had a very large lunch today, My Lord,” his mother responded calmly before Draco could even unclench his teeth, which had frozen with fear.

“Surely he can speak for himself, Narcissa?” he reprimanded, and she went silent instantly, bowing her head in acquiescence.

“Yes, my Lord, I… I did have a big lunch,” Draco stammered his excuse. “The food is superb as always, of course. I’m just not terribly hungry, and I don’t feel my best today. I did not intend to be rude, sir.” He clamped his mouth closed then, trying to prevent himself from continuing his senseless chin wagging, keeping his mother from being forced to kick him under the table to stop his babbled apology. 

Of course, it was a lie, as he’d eaten almost nothing for lunch, either. The truth was he’d been steadily losing weight and sleep since he’d joined the Dark Lord’s service. It had persisted throughout his sixth year at Hogwarts as the pressure mounted with every failed attempt on Dumbledore’s life. But it had intensified since Potter’s capture and imprisonment here, becoming even more pronounced since his subsequent escape, so that Draco was hardly eating anything at all now, as if he were attempting to become so small, so emaciated, as to be completely invisible in his master’s presence.

The Dark Lord’s disdain seemed to have transferred from father to son, so that he appeared to be targeting Draco now. He felt those red eyes always on him, though his mother did everything in her power to deflect it. Still, Draco lived in near constant fear these days, afraid Voldemort might kill her, too; afraid that the odium he felt for the man would be detected, or that the help he’d given Potter and his friends during their imprisonment would be discovered. 

Draco could feel the crimson stare now as if it was burning a hole in the side of his head, but he kept his own eyes on his plate in deference to him. Repeatedly clearing his mind, he practiced his breathing technique to slow his heart rate and get control of his fear when he felt, for the second time tonight, the pressure against his skull. He didn’t need to look up this time to know who was trying to sift through his thoughts.

 “You are excused, Draco,” Voldemort hissed quietly after what felt like an eternity of heavy silence, apparently satisfied that Draco was concealing nothing. 

Nodding his head at once, Draco quickly pushed back from the table. “Thank you, my Lord,” he spoke softly, without raising his eyes, and then turned and left the dining room, heading for his chambers without risking another glance at the head of the table.

He felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him, which in addition to his mother and aunt, only consisted of Avery, Mulciber, and Wormtail tonight, and Wormtail really didn’t count.  He was a constant presence in the house, treated more as a servant to the Dark Lord than a Death Eater, barely a step above the house elves, though he was permitted to share meals with them instead of serving it. Walking as quickly as he dared without outright fleeing, Draco took the stairs two at a time and let out a held breath when he was safely behind his closed door, his back pressed against it.  

He could relax his shields a fraction when not in the Dark Lord’s presence, though he only ever did so when he was alone in his rooms. There were too many others in the manor, like Bella, who would be only too happy to betray him, to carry word of his disloyalty to the Dark Lord. 

As he made his way to his bed, he kicked off his shoes and lay down on his back, exhausted from fear and lack of food, his stomach burning with acid and knotted with tension. Rummaging around in the drawer of his bedside table with shaking hands, he came up with a half empty pack of smokes and a small box of matches. He shook one out of the pack and lit it before relaxing back onto the bed. He took a deep drag to calm his nerves, holding the smoke in his lungs a moment before blowing it towards the ceiling and letting it roll out of his nostrils. 

He’d likely take to drinking if it wouldn’t impair his senses, liberate his tongue, and cause him to completely lose his wits. The consumption of alcohol would be a dangerous endeavor for him to undertake in his home these days to be certain, though on evenings like this, it was still extremely tempting. It was a very hard thing for him to resist spending his evening trying to get to the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey or whole barrel of oak-matured mead. The pressure on him was almost overwhelming sometimes because he knew it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord killed him, too, like he’d killed his father. It would occur more swiftly if his actions and thoughts were revealed, however, so he stuck with nicotine as a coping mechanism, for now anyway. There was no reason to court his death. 

In what had become almost a nightly ritual, he found himself contemplating the manner of his demise, reflecting on his own mortality. His mind tormented him with images of himself on the polished marble floor under the ornate crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer. Lying in his father’s place, the Death Eaters in a circle around him while he screamed in pain, his cries for mercy going unanswered, until he couldn’t draw breath anymore, until his screams turned to gurgling gasps. 

His hands shook as he returned the fag to his lips and drew another measure of calming smoke into his lungs, squeezing his eyes shut to try to force out the horrible thoughts, but they would always return. Even his sleeping hours were filled with the same nightmarish visions. Images of the Dark Lord cursing him until he lost control of his own bowels and blood welled in his open mouth, his tongue chewed nearly in two, his eyes locked on his mother’s during his torture like his father’s had been, holding her gaze, trying to tell her he was sorry for failing her, until he stopped seeing forever. Until the echo of his screams had faded, his eyes had gone dull, and his body ceased in its spasms, finally going mercifully still and lifeless. The images and the memories made him shake with terror and revulsion and grief.

But it wasn’t really help he’d given Potter and his friends anyway, he reminded himself, trying to assuage the fears that were always threatening to engulf him these days. It was more that he refused to participate in the Death Eaters games of torture. Ensuring only their survival until the Dark Lord returned by insisting they be given water and food like the other prisoners, taking them the food himself when they refused, that was all he’d done, really. Well, and then, of course, he’d stood aside when Potter made his escape with his friends, even handing them back their wands. But that only proved him a coward, he reasoned, not that he’d actually aided in their escape.  

Any fool could see that trying to get in Potter’s way that day would have been suicide, and Draco was no fool.  He was a Slytherin above all else; self-preservation was always and would always be his utmost priority. Courage was highly overrated, a potentially fatal trait to possess, in his opinion. Only dead people were ever called courageous, and it was a word said in an effort to comfort the families over their loved one’s own stupidity. That’s what the term courage meant, to Draco, just another word for stupid. He could be, and had, been called a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t generally one of them.

There had been a room full of charred Death Eaters flung around the dungeon floor or slumped against the walls, many dead, some still in flames, when Draco had braved a look inside. What he had seen then left him in awe. Seeing his childhood rival transformed, standing in the center of the room, glowing with power, literally glowing, with his body nude and covered in blood as if he’d just been birthed by Rhea and escaped the jaws of his father, Kronos, had left Draco speechless and dumbfounded. Potter had been a thing of frightful beauty, a terrible, vengeful god in that moment. His eyes were filled with power, a wild madness in them as if he’d climbed out of the very bowels of hell to deliver his retribution. The image was so powerful it caused Draco, for the first time in his life, to question his own beliefs, to doubt his upbringing. 

Now he realized that he’d switched sides at that moment. He knew for sure he was on the wrong side, the losing side, at seeing the vision of Potter that day, at the feel of his terrifying power, his fury, breaking against him in painful waves. Feeling the sting of that wrath, Draco had heeded the warnings. Nobody could fault him for that. Even wandless, Potter would have killed him if he’d made any attempt to stop him. There was no question in his mind.

Draco had learned that there were many different kinds of power. The Dark Lord was certainly powerful, there was no doubt. Draco had seen numerous displays of that tremendous power, felt it. But when he’d brought Potter food the night before his escape, he’d watched as Harry continued to rise while they were brutally beating his already horribly damaged body. Forcing his eyes back to Draco’s to ensure that he saw it all, Potter compelled him to witness it, his stubborn refusal to give up. He’d displayed a kind of power then that Draco had never seen before. A kind of irresistible force, a strength of will which Draco could not fathom. He knew even then that Potter would beat Voldemort, even before the awesome display he’d shown at their escape because he simply refused to stay down no matter what they did to him. It was the same kind of quiet strength Draco admired in his mother and tried to learn from now by her example in his own bid to stay alive.

His father had possessed his own type of power, the power of persuasion, the power to influence and manipulate; traits Draco also hoped to possess, to have inherited. And then, of course, there was Snape, the wizard he hoped to emulate most of all right now. A potent man that Draco knew had been in the Dark Lord’s favor, Snape had been a most trusted Death Eater, a formidable wizard who had murdered Dumbledore for the Dark Lord, for Draco, to fulfill an oath to his mother. And yet he’d also tried to save Potter, clearly hiding his true loyalty so completely that he’d fooled the most powerful wizard of all time. Draco couldn’t wrap his brain around it. He couldn’t reconcile those two conflicting images of his potions master together in his mind. The man despised Potter and venerated the Dark Lord. Yet he risked his life to attempt to pull Potter from the dungeons. Draco didn’t understand his motivations, but he also couldn’t help admiring him at the same time. He prayed most of all for that power these days, the power of deception.

Licking his fingers, he pinched the end of the remnants of his cigarette to snuff out the fire. Then he tossed it in the bin to prepare for bed, praying for a night of dreamless sleep, for a reprieve from the nightmares.

The following day saw the Dark Lord take his leave again after breakfast in one of his frequent trips. Draco had no idea what business he was conducting, nor did he have the slightest desire to know. He only felt welcome relief as some of the pressure was lifted off his chest at his departure. In his absence, he almost always left Nagini, however. Draco despised the serpent and was utterly terrified of it. When the Dark Lord was away, it seemed to watch over the remaining occupants of the house as if it had been instructed to report their activities back to its master on his return. Draco believed it to have near human intelligence, an astuteness in its terrible lidless eyes that wasn’t natural. The Dark Lord certainly spoke to the snake as if it did. The horrible hissing of Parsletongue as they conversed made Draco’s skin crawl, and the way it looked at him as if he were its next meal gave him the creeps. On those days, he endeavored not to be caught alone in the same room with the monstrous ophidian. He hoped he looked less appetizing since he’d lost so much weight, but feared that it only made him appear easier to swallow.

He returned to his room in fairly good spirits after the morning meal in which he actually managed to eat a fair amount, only to be greeted by the most shocking of sights. Standing in the corner of his room, nearly hidden by the bed and shaking all over in terror, was their old house elf, Dobby, wearing the most bizarre assortment of clothes he’d ever seen. Draco was so shocked that he just stood there with his hand on the door, his mouth open in stunned surprise.

“M… Master Draco,” the elf stammered in greeting, clearly petrified at addressing him or finding himself in the home of the family he’d once served. 

Draco swiftly closed the door and locked it before turning back to the elf. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, causing the elf to shrink farther away, his huge eyes reflecting his fear.

“Dobby has a… a message for you, sir, f… from Harry Potter.”

Absolutely nothing out of the elf’s mouth could have stunned Draco more. He was totally speechless as he continued to gape, trying to make some sense of this, of the words he’d spoken.

“Potter has a message?  For me?” he finally managed to get out as if the meaning hadn’t been clear.

“Yes, sir,” he squeaked, nodding his head vigorously. “Harry Potter is requesting a meeting.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he replied in utter disbelief, marching over to sit on the bed while the elf backed flush against the wall. He needed to sit down. This was completely bizarre, so totally unexpected that he thought maybe it wasn’t actually real but some sort of stress-induced hallucination. He decided to go along with it anyway, even though he knew it was foolish, that he should be rid of the elf, whatever his message, with haste. Instead, he asked, “What in the world would Potter want with me?”

“Dobby does not know, sir. Harry Potter said only that he would likes a word with you, if you are to be willing.”

“When?”

“If you are agreeing, sir, right now. Dobby is to be taking you.”

“I don’t get any time to think this over, huh? Come with you now or the deal’s off?”

“Yes… yes, sir.”

“Well, he’s not stupid, I’ll give him that. It doesn’t give me any time to summon any reinforcements or formulate a plan to capture him if I intend to go.” Draco was speaking out loud, not really realizing what he was saying until the elf’s ears had gone flat to his head and he’d hissed a warning, his fear apparently draining away at the perceived threat to Potter’s welfare. “So is Potter your master now, or something?” he asked, staring at the elf in mild curiosity.

“Dobby is a free elf,” he answered defiantly, straightening his shoulders. “And Dobby chooses to serve Harry Potter, for as long as Harry Potter wishes Dobby to.”

“Okkaaayy, and if I agree to go with you, what assurance do I have that Potter and his friends aren’t just trying to lure me out of the house to harm me or take me prisoner or something?”

“Harry Potter is a noble wizard,” Dobby replied angrily, as if that settled the matter, as if a wizard like Potter would never stoop to that level. 

The elf clearly worshipped Potter with blind devotion. Another follower for _The Chosen One,_ he thought dismally, champion of half breeds and house elves, mudbloods and blood traitors. 

Draco sat in silence, mulling over his options, trying to decide what he should do. He knew it was idiotic to go, but he was fighting a strong desire to obey the summons anyway. He must be going mad. At long last he stood, coming to a decision that confirmed his mental state as he stretched out his hand. 

The elf stared up at him with a considerable measure of distrust. 

 _It’s mutual_ , he thought, a moment before the elf slid his hand in Draco’s, and they vanished instantly with a crack. They reappeared a moment later at the back of an alley, the buildings on both sides so tall that they cast the passage into darkness despite the early hour of the day. Dobby immediately released his hand, and he turned, peering around.

“Where is he?” Draco asked, starting to feel the beginnings of fear, feeling vulnerable though the alleyway appeared vacant. He drew his wand.

“Harry Potter says you’re to Apparate to the place of your meeting after the World Cup, sir,” the elf instructed.

“What the hell is all this?” he growled in irritation at the cloak and dagger game they were playing with him. “That’s what Harry Potter said, is it?” he asked mockingly, but the elf remained silent. Then Dobby stepped back, his huge eyes still watching Draco warily and snapped his fingers, vanishing again with another loud crack, leaving Draco alone in the alley to decide for himself if he intended to go on, to continue the game. 

“Shit!” He glared around again, and then sighed deeply.  “After the World Cup, huh? Clever.” He gave the alley one final look. “Fucking Potter,” he muttered, and turned on the spot, feeling like he was traveling back in time as well as through space as he pictured the spot in the woods in his mind. He appeared after another moment and spun on the spot, wand up, expecting to be ambushed by the remnants of the Order, but again, all was quiet. He stared around for any sign of Potter, but he was alone once more. He knew he was in the right location, though, of course, the moor looked much different than it had that summer night.

“Hello?  Is anyone here?” he called irritably and waited, but there was no response besides the answering calls of the insects and the barking of a squirrel whose breakfast Draco had evidently interrupted. He continued to wait, until he was sure no one was coming, until he began to believe this really was a ruse to lure him away from the manor, though to what end he didn’t know. His frustration mounted. “Well, this has been a really interesting little day trip, Potter,” he said loudly to the trees. Then he began to turn quickly on the spot again, intent on returning home. He was done playing, done waiting. 

It was as if some invisible force struck him as his face collided painfully against an immovable object midway through his turn. He let out a howl of pain and surprise as he fell backwards, landing hard on his arse on the ground. Dazed, blood pouring from his nose, he blinked rapidly at the watering of his eyes. Then Weasley emerged in front of him, having rapped himself on the top of the head to end the charm concealing him. He straightened up; holding the wand Draco had dropped.

“What the hell is wrong with you, you fucking radge?” Draco shouted in outrage, holding his nose.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Weasley responded with a feral grin, and without another word, he reached down and grasped Draco by the upper arm, Apparating them both away again. 

They reappeared a moment later, Draco sputtering, trying to catch his breath, still bleeding from his throbbing nose as Weasley pulled him to his feet. After a moment’s confusion, he realized they were back in the alley again, where the elf had left him.

“He didn’t try to summon anyone,” Weasley announced while Draco tried to get his bearings, his nose swelling rapidly.

“Good,” came a female response, and then Granger materialized suddenly in front of them as she also removed the disillusionment charm on herself. “He followed Dobby’s orders here straight away, too,” she continued and then glanced at him. “Morning, Draco.”

“You broke my nose,” he accused, ignoring her and glaring at Weasley again, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Stop being so stroppy. I was just paying you back for all the help you gave us at your place, Malfoy,” the ginger brute responded. “You had that coming to you, and you’re lucky it’s not worse. If you had summoned anyone else, you’d be dead right now.  Hermione or I would have put paid to you before you even knew we were there.”

Granger conjured a handkerchief and held it out to him, neither confirming nor denying Weasley’s bold statement. He glared at her then, furious at his treatment but also at Weasley’s words because he was absolutely right. Draco never sensed that either one was there, which was foolish. He should have known better. They could have taken him down with ease. Jerking the handkerchief angrily from her grip, he mopped up his face while she turned, leading the way out of the alley.

“I still haven’t ruled it out either. You look like you’re thinking of pressing your little dark mark, which will be the last thing you ever do, Malfoy. Do you understand?” Weasley hissed warningly in his ear as he followed Granger, frog marching Draco out of the alley with his hand still firmly clamped on Draco’s arm. 

They stepped out into an unfamiliar street, clearly in Muggle London. The glare of the sunlight after the darkness of the alleyway made his eyes stream again, but it was temporary as they immediately descended a flight of stairs. Draco was still so dazed that he had no idea where they were taking him. They went through some sort of turnstile where Granger passed a blue card (that he was sure read “Oyster,” though he’d never seen anything that looked less like an oyster) across a yellow circular disk for them to pass. Then she continued to lead them down a subterranean staircase that moved on its own, which he was impressed with in spite of himself, before finally emerging in a well-lit underground tunnel. 

There were red and blue signs everywhere that announced that they were indeed _Underground_ for some reason. Surely even Muggles could figure that out for themselves, he thought. Coming to a stop in front of what appeared to be train tracks, they waited. 

“We’ll take the central line, it’s the longest route so it will give us the most time,” Granger announced, although if she believed that statement meant anything to him or Weasley, she was mistaken as she was met with only silence from both of them. 

Within a few moments, a sleek red and white train sped towards them, though it didn’t look like any train Draco had ever seen. It moved entirely too swiftly, stopped too abruptly. It didn’t belch steam, and it was much quieter than he expected. When the doors opened, Granger stepped forward and Weasley followed, pulling Draco along with him, garnering more than a few stares from the surrounding Muggles. He was forced into a seat with Weasley beside him as Granger muttered a stream of spells, concealing her wand as best could before she took a seat across from them. One must have been a Muggle repelling charm because the few that remained in their compartment hurriedly left, and no one else joined them. When the doors sealed themselves, she added a locking charm, and Potter finally revealed himself as he slid his invisibility cloak off. He was seated next to Granger, directly across from Draco, and he understood now who she’d been speaking to earlier.

“What did you use?” Potter asked her. His voice sounded different than Draco remembered, raspy and hoarse. He didn’t know if he would even have recognized it as Potter’s if he hadn’t seen his lips moving.

“I placed a Muggle-repelling charm, an anti-Apparition spell, and an Imperturbable charm on the compartment, just in case. I also made the windows reflective so no one can see in, and sealed the doors for good measure,” she answered.

Potter nodded his head as if satisfied. Draco was, at any rate. He was impressed not only with her quick spell work, but the lengths and planning they’d gone to in an effort to secure their safety with this meeting.

“Potter,” Draco greeted him irritably, pulling the bloodied handkerchief away from his face when Harry turned, finally acknowledging him. He did nothing but stare at Draco, however, as the train started moving, waiting, it seemed, for the disembodied female voice to stop speaking. It reminded him of the voice in the lifts on his many visits to the Ministry, cool and pleasant as it declared their next destination.

Potter looked much better than Draco expected. The last time he’d seen him, the image of him right before he’d fled with Weasley and Granger was still seared in his brain, maybe forever. Looking a little underfed (which wasn’t even that unusual for Potter) was all that appeared to be wrong with him now, other than a black eye he was sporting. But that couldn’t be a remnant from his imprisonment. It was too fresh. Draco looked much the same, maybe worse, since Potter didn’t have bloodstains on his face and clothes from a recently broken nose, which would probably leave him with two black eyes of his own. 

Weasley tossed Draco’s confiscated wand into Potter’s lap, who picked it up and rolled it in his fingers, testing its weight in his palm. “What kind of wood is it?” he asked.

“Hawthorn,” Draco answered, bewildered at Potter’s apparent interest in his wand, and then knowing the next question, he continued, “with a unicorn hair core.”

Potter nodded his head, staring at it a few minutes in silence, turning it over and over in his hand as he examined it. Then he turned it suddenly on Draco, pointing it between his eyes. “ _Episky_ ,” he incanted quickly before Draco could even react at having his own wand turned on him. 

He grunted at the sharp pain, and then he felt an immediate soothing warm heat as his nose was instantly mended. Feeling it gingerly, he ran his fingers carefully over the bruised flesh. “Thanks,” he said grudgingly.

“Just returning the favor,” Potter replied.

Draco didn’t know if he was being facetious, referring to when he’d broken Potter’s nose on the train to Hogwarts their final year, or being sincere from when he’d healed his leg in the dungeon after Dolohov snapped it like a twig.

 “Ron, would you stop hitting the people I’m trying to gain cooperation from, or get information out of, please?” Potter asked then in exasperation, turning his intense stare on the apparent muscle of their little operation. “It tends to lessen my chances of obtaining either.” 

Weasley just shrugged back at him, completely unabashed.

Draco tried, but he couldn’t help the smirk that tilted up the corners of his mouth at the exchange, wondering who else the trio had been interrogating. He hadn’t noticed anyone else at the manor looking recently roughed up since Potter fled the dungeons, however, so maybe they saved this kind of greeting for special guests. Although, he supposed, if Weasley’s threats were to be believed, they could’ve done worse to anyone else they’d captured. He tried to think if there was anyone he hadn’t seen recently, anyone who’d gone missing after Potter’s escape. Besides Snape that is.

“It’s as much the ferret’s fault as mine,” Weasley replied churlishly. That wiped the smirk off Draco’s face as he gritted his teeth at the hated nickname. “The ponce ran right into my fist.” He scowled at Draco then as if daring him to contradict him, and Draco scowled right back at the temerity of his explanation, but didn’t argue.

“We’re going for a ride on the tube today. Taking a little tour of Muggle London, if you don’t mind, Draco,” Potter told him then, as if he had a choice anyway with Potter still holding his wand and Weasley still holding him in his seat. “I’d rather not be stationary for too long. I’m reasoning it’s harder to catch a moving target. I thought this might be better than, say, trying to have a little meet-up at the Leaky Cauldron. It makes me feel safer, at any rate. Sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, by the way. You understand, I’m certain. I recall you doing a fair amount of sneaking around yourself our sixth year. Can’t be too careful, can you?” 

“What’s happened to your eye then, if you’re being so careful?” Draco questioned snidely. “Did you just _accidentally_ run into Weasley’s fist, too?” 

Potter smiled at him. “Nope. Hermione got to me first,” he answered dryly. “She slapped the piss out of me. You remember what that’s like, don’t you, Malfoy?”

Draco stared at him in some surprise at his frankness. “Damn, you’re a real jammy berk, aren’t you? Never catch a break, do you, Potter?” he replied, amused. “Still, I’d think they’d both be a little more grateful. You must truly be a bastard if she clocked you like that even after you saved their arses.”

 “I do seem to have a way with people,” Harry responded sarcastically. “This one I deserved, but I attract more than my fair share of hostility sometimes. It must be my winning personality.”

“Oh, stop it,” Granger huffed crossly, looking pink in the face. “Both of you just drop it. We didn’t go to all this trouble to discuss Harry’s face.”

“Lover’s quarrel?” Draco asked then with raised eyebrows, ignoring her protests completely to continue his own line of questioning.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Weasley growled at him.

“Call off your dog,” he demanded of Potter before turning to the weasel, who was snorting hot air on his neck like a raging bull about to charge. “Did I touch a nerve or something, Weaselbee?” he goaded. “I’m not going anywhere, you know? You can release me.” Of course he didn’t.  In irritation, Draco turned back to Potter. “So you called this little meeting, or interrogation, I guess. Can we get on with it then?”

“Need to be home before your mummy finds you missing?” Weasley taunted.

“No, you prick, but I haven’t exactly been treated very nicely since I agreed to this. I’ve been physically assaulted and practically kidnapped, and I’d like to take my leave as quickly as possible. I think I’ll be passing at the next invitation.”

“We were definitely kidnapped and more than assaulted. I haven’t come close yet to giving you what we got,” Weasley shot back angrily.

“Enough,” Potter began, speaking loudly to forestall any further angry retorts from him or Weasley. “I have some questions for you, if you’re willing to answer them, Malfoy. Despite your initial treatment,” and here he glanced at Weasley again as he spoke, “I don’t have plans to force anything out of you. I know you came voluntarily.”

“And what makes you think I’d willingly tell you anything?” he asked. “What makes you think I’d risk my neck to help you?” 

“I think you already have,” Harry replied. “I think you did, when we were being held in your home.”

“I was only trying to keep you alive for him,” he lied. His tongue, which he’d thought to be dulled from disuse, was as sharp as ever and was recalled to him immediately in Potter’s presence, as if this was just another trip home on the train from Hogwarts, and they were just two childhood enemies facing off again. “I was saving my own neck. If he came back and you were already dead...” He felt angry suddenly at Potter, afraid of what he’d gotten himself into, the realization of the seriousness of what he was playing at here dawning on him as he spoke.

“My mistake,” Potter said coldly after a long silence while Weasley clamped down on Draco’s arm as if he were preparing to rip it from its socket.

“Why did you even come then, Draco?” Granger asked.

“Didn’t have any better offers at the time,” he replied with a sneer. In truth, he wasn’t really sure himself, which terrified him. He had no idea what he’d hoped to gain from this meeting or why he couldn’t fight the lure of seeing Potter. Maybe it was to feel that power from him again, to convince himself it was still there, but it was dangerous and stupid. Potter wanted something in trade for satisfying his curiosity, and Draco didn’t know if he was prepared to give it to him.

The train was coming to a stop, slowing down at the next station. They all sat silently as passengers entered and left the adjacent compartments. Granger’s spells had apparently held because no one attempted to gain entry to their compartment or bang on the sealed doors during the interval at the station. Draco made no attempt to leave the train, didn’t even bother to rise, choosing to remain dutifully in his seat, although he did wrench himself free, finally, from Weasley’s grip.

“He killed my father, Potter… because of you. Because of what I did for you, because I let you go,” he finally accused when they were moving again, his voice cracking, his hands starting to shake as he pointed at Harry in his anger and hatred.

“I know,” Potter replied, which just infuriated him more.

The simplicity of his admission was a wholly inadequate response for the enormous loss of his father. He could feel his eyes stinging, his face hot with rage and embarrassment at coming apart like this in front of them.

“The Dark Lord killed him, but it’s your fault!” he shouted.

“Your father deserved to die,” Weasley growled at him savagely, coming to Potter’s defense when it appeared that Harry had no intention of defending himself from Draco’s verbal assault. “Do you know what he did to Harry? Do you know what the rest of your mates—”

Potter shot him a warning glance, holding up his hand, and Weasley went silent at the nonverbal command, clamping his lips closed and glaring at Draco. His whole face was red, like a kettle on the boil, steaming with fury. 

Of course, Draco knew exactly what they’d done to him. He’d heard them bragging to each other, seen the evidence on Potter’s body. But he’d also seen some of Potter’s payback, too, and none of the remaining Death Eaters that took part in his torture were bragging now.

“He killed my father, too,” Harry said calmly then in that strange gravelly voice. “He killed both my parents, and that’s also my fault, but I didn’t start this. Not with him, and not with you. Not with your father, either. He chose to follow Tom, and so did you. You told me once that I’d picked the losing side, Draco, but I didn’t get a choice in any of this. No one asked me. It was decided for me by Tom when I was barely old enough to walk. He decided for us both then, and the two of us have been paying for that decision ever since. He’s hunted me like an animal from the minute I rejoined the wizarding world. I was a child, Draco.” 

Potter stared hard at him, his eyes boring into Draco’s like they had that day in the dungeon so that Draco couldn’t look away as he spoke, the proof of his power still evident in that verdant gaze. His voice grew softer, colder, as he continued to speak. “He took my family from me. He took my choice, my childhood, and my freedom. Your father and a handful of Tom’s followers took even more from me in the dungeons of your home. I’m choosing to trust you, asking for your help right now, Draco, and I’m giving you the choice. Make it.”

Draco sat there, staring at Potter, saying nothing for a long time, and then he finally spoke quietly. “I wasn’t brave enough to try and save my father, Potter. I didn’t try and stop the Dark Lord killing him. What makes you think I’m brave enough to help you? I don’t want my mother to go the same way as yours. I… I should have tried to stop you. Maybe he wouldn’t have… I just stood there.”

“Dumbledore offered you protection. Do you remember? At the top of the tower, he offered to hide you both, you and your mother. You came very near to accepting it, unless I’m mistaken. I’m willing to extend that same protection to you and your mother now. We can hide you. The Order can protect you.”

Draco gaped at him incredulously. “Uh… you were captured, dolt! Did they beat you so badly that you don’t remember that part, or did one of these two Obliviate you? They came very near to killing you, Potter. Thanks, but I don’t need that kind of protection. I think I’ll take my chances.”  

 “He’ll destroy you, Draco, you and everyone around you. It’s all he’s capable of. He’ll destroy everything you’ve ever cared about. Surely you realize that by now.”

“And if I’m stupid enough to betray him, foolish enough to feed you information or whatever it is you want, it will somehow be different? You think I should get in bed with you now instead? Is that it?” he asked.

Potter actually snorted then, as if that was hilarious. “In a manner of speaking,” he finally got out, though he was still smirking. Weasley, however, was looking more furious than ever. 

Something had definitely changed here with the three of them. Some weird tension seemed to have sprung up amidst the trio at Draco’s words, like an electrical charge that was looking to ground. Draco wondered if the two wizards were in some kind of love triangle with the Mudblood now, or something. The weasel had been hot for Granger for as long as Draco had known them, and he was pretty sure Potty had a thing for Weasley’s little sister, but something was going on here. If Granger and Potter were now an item, that must make for an interesting dynamic. It may be putting a strain on the friendship, but it didn’t seem to have dampened their fierce protectiveness of Potter. Draco was more curious about it than he should be, and it annoyed him, actually. What difference did it make to him who Potter was banging?

“You must think I’m an idiot, Potter. Those beatings rattled your brains, not mine.”

“Beatings you did nothing to prevent,” Weasley spat at him, clenching his fists, apparently unable to hold his tongue any longer.

“Well what the hell was I supposed to do? Huh?” he asked angrily, trying to defend himself, though he didn’t know why, but he was fed up with Weasley. “I did everything I possibly could.”

“Right,” Weasley scoffed in disbelief.

Draco didn’t respond again. It was pointless anyway. Instead he turned back to Potter. “I’ve seen him destroy everyone around you, too, Potter. Being close to you is an even riskier proposition right now from where I’m sitting.” 

Harry winced slightly at the truth of his statement, his eyes darting quickly to Granger and Weasley before he returned his gaze to Draco, smothering the brief moment of naked fear he’d revealed in that instant. “Fine, you’ve made your position clear. I still have some questions for you. I’m not asking you to do anything else,” Potter told him and waited.

“I don’t know what information you think I possibly possess, but ask away.”

Harry stared hard at him before he spoke, as if he were thinking over his words. “Can you tell me where your aunt lives?”

“Bellatrix?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise at the unexpected query as Potter visibly recoiled at the name. “What in the world would you want with her?”

“I have a score to settle with her… among others,” Potter answered through gritted teeth.

“I bet you do, but you’re mad to want to tangle with her again,” he replied. “Although, if it’s any consolation, I think she’s just as frightened of you now as you are of her.” He smiled at the scowl that appeared on Potter’s face. “She’s lived at the manor since they escaped Azkaban, so I would think the address is already familiar to you.”

“Where did she live before that? What’s the address of the home she shared with her husband?”

Draco could not fathom why in the world Potter wanted this information. “She was sent to Azkaban when I was a baby, Potter. I knew her about as well as you knew your godfather before their escape. It wasn’t as if we spent holidays with her. I believe the Lestrange’s are from Yorkshire, but as I said, it’s not as if they took up residence in their old home and started playing house when they escaped from prison. If you’re thinking of attacking her, you won’t find her there.”

“Tom once gave your father an object to keep safe for him before he killed my parents. I need to know if she ever spoke about something he’d entrusted to her, something that would have held similar value to him.”

“I don’t know,” he answered a little too quickly, caught off guard by the sudden change in the line of inquiry.

“Yeah, you do, Malfoy. You were always bragging at school about the things you weren’t supposed to know about, lording the information over everyone all the time,” Weasley accused then. “Probably sneaking around the manor, listening at doors to private conversations, weren’t you?”

“Tom found out about the diary, didn’t he?” Harry went on as if Weasley hadn’t spoken. “He found out it was destroyed and he was angry, wasn’t he?”

Draco’s mouth hung open. 

“Did there come a time when he asked her about the safety of the object he’d asked her to keep hidden for him?”

“I… why do you want to know that?” was all he could think to ask. He was stalling because he had indeed overheard a conversation, though he hadn’t exactly been sneaking around like Weasel King had suggested.

“What can you tell me about it, Draco?” Potter asked, pressing him now, leaning forward in his seat. “Where is it?”

“She’s keeping something for him in her vault, but I don’t know what it is, okay? That’s all I know. He asked her about it, yeah.” He felt dread at his admission. He knew for sure this would get him killed. He was a fool to come, a fool to answer any of Potter’s questions.

“How can I get into that vault, Draco? Can you get access to it?” Potter asked him then, urgently.

“No. Fuck you! You’re crazy,” he spat. “I’m not helping you… oh, God! I’m dead already!” He was starting to shake now, beginning to panic. He might as well throw himself under this train now and save himself the agony he knew lay ahead of him.

Granger moved suddenly. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, a quick flash of her wand. He felt dizzy, light headed for a moment. Lifting a hand to his head, he rubbed at his temples blinking rapidly to try and focus. 

“Sorry, what did you just say?” he asked, feeling disoriented. 

“Are you all right, Draco?”

“Yeah,” he answered, though his heart seemed to be beating too fast and his skin felt clammy, sweaty, like he had the lurgy. Weasley must have hit him even harder than he realized. He was starting to get a headache. Maybe he just needed to get some food in him, he thought. Breakfast had been a while ago now.

“What I said was, fine, you don’t want to get in bed with me, that’s cool, but I still have some questions for you. I’m not asking you to do anything else,” Potter repeated and he waited.

“I don’t know what information you think I possibly have, but ask away.”

Harry stared hard at him before he spoke, as if he were thinking over his words. “Can you tell me where your aunt lives?”

“Bellatrix?” he asked. His eyebrows rose in surprise, and Potter flinched at the name. “What in the world would you want with her?”

“I have some unfinished business with her as well as a few others, but she’s at the top of my list right now.”

“I’ll bet she is, but you’re mad to want to tangle with her again,” Draco replied. “She’s lived at the manor since they escaped Azkaban, so I would think the address is already familiar to you.”

“Does she ever leave the manor?”

“She doesn’t have regular appointments to get her nails done or anything, if that’s what you mean,” he said scoffing. “But yeah, she does leave occasionally.” Then he looked seriously at Potter. “She may be mad as a hatter, Potter, but she’s still my aunt, no matter what she did to you. If you think I’m planning to help you ambush her, or something, you’re out of your mind.”

“When was the last time she left?” Harry asked, appearing to ignore his words.

“She went to Azkaban just as soon as she was able to get back on her feet after the mess you left her in.” He stopped, staring at Potter, trying to decide how much he should say. “She’s ordered the Snatchers to have anyone school age brought to the manor first instead of the Ministry. Especially if they’re Gryffindors,” he admitted.

Potter’s face drained of color. “What does she want with them?” he asked, though Draco thought he already knew the answer.

“She’s interrogating them for information about your whereabouts. She left the manor to retrieve that Ravenclaw nutter who went to the Ministry with you, Lovegood, from Azkaban. The Snatchers brought Dean Thomas a few days ago with a goblin he was travelling with.”

“Oh my God,” Granger cried, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. 

“That fucking bitch!” Weasley growled.

Potter just looked terrified at the news, a slight shaking starting in his hands. “Are they still alive?” he asked fearfully then, finally finding his voice.

“She hasn’t killed them,” he answered. “She’s not… doing to them what she did to you, Potter. I’m sure she’ll send them back to Azkaban if they don’t know anything.”

Potter just stared at him, clearly not believing a word of his feeble attempt to reassure him, and of course, he was right to be skeptical. Potter knew even better than he did what Bellatrix was capable of. Draco had no idea really what she had in store for those souls who couldn’t give her information on his whereabouts. She’d become even more deranged at his escape, nearly as obsessed with Potter now as she was with the Dark Lord.

The train was slowing down again, coming up to the next station, and Harry leaned forward then, extending his arm out to Draco to give him back his wand. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco’s eyebrows went up as he stared not at the wand, but at the hand holding it. Harry’s sleeve had pulled back, exposing his wrist to Draco. A pink, still-healing scar was visible there across the wrist, with another perpendicular to that, extending up his arm for as far as Draco could see. He looked up into Potter’s eyes as he reached for it then. Grasping the wrist instead of the wand, he jerked Harry forward, closer to him, exposing the arm further to his examination. The pressure of his fingers around Potter’s wrist made the scars go white. Both Granger and Weasley let out a yelp of shocked outrage and raised their own wands to him, grabbing either him or Potter as if they thought he were about to Apparate away with him, but Potter never changed expressions or even tried to pull away.

“My father didn’t give you that, Potter,”  he said sharply, but he was met with only silence from the other wizard, their eyes still fixed on each other, his trusty sidekicks still frozen beside them. “You expected me to throw my lot in with you, and you’ve already tried to check out at least once already? That doesn’t inspire very much confidence. What am I supposed to do if you succeed the next time?”

They continued to stare at each other, everyone totally silent.  Then he finally relaxed his grip, and Potter pulled his wrist free, dropping Draco’s wand in his open palm before he finally spoke. “I’m holding myself together right now, Malfoy. I can’t guarantee for how long, it could change tomorrow, but I’m doing the best I can. You would’ve had to decide if that was good enough for you, if you could trust me or not.”

His response was so frank, completely devoid of any attempt to sway Draco with false promises or gloss over the seriousness of his own situation that it took Draco totally by surprise. 

“You’re different,” he blurted, without meaning to, speaking his observation out loud as he stared at the raven-haired wizard while the train came to a stop in the station.

“So are you,” Potter replied simply. “I don’t think either of us has been the same since that night when Dumbledore died on the tower. But spending time in your family’s home didn’t do me any favors, if that’s what you mean. The hospitality I received there leaves something to be desired. I don’t think I’ll be recommending it to my friends.”

“I did what I could,” Draco told him, though he didn’t know what he expected to receive in return. Gratitude? Absolution, maybe? What he got was a simple nod of acknowledgement from Potter.

“Do what you can for the others then, too.” 

Draco grimaced at the softly spoken request, but didn’t respond.

“Mind the gap,” the cool disembodied female voice warned them as the doors swung open on the compartments besides their own.

Draco got to his feet, pocketing his wand as Granger ended at least some of the enchantments on their own compartment so their doors slid open as well, though no one entered.

“I will kill you if you get in my way, Draco. I hope you understand that,” Potter called to him quietly as he stepped away from them.

“You’re threatening me now, Scarhead?” he asked, turning back to face him.

“No, but I am giving you fair warning. Stay out of my way, and we won’t have any issues. There are certain people on my list, and you aren’t one of them right now. Keep it that way is all I’m saying.”

Draco stared at him a moment before he finally spoke. “I don’t understand why you let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” Potter argued, angry at the accusation.

“Yeah, you did,” he countered. “You let them… you volunteered for it, provoked it even, and yet all the time you had the power to kill them all, to just take your friends and leave.” 

Potter held his tongue, his lips pressed together so tightly they’d gone white. 

He saw again in his mind’s eye, Potter’s arms stretched out across the table in the basement room they used for torture, his chest and face pressed against it, chained down so that he was bent over it for a purpose Draco hadn’t needed to guess at when he’d entered the room. Draco had thought him already dead. His body was bloody, filthy, and disgustingly, horribly violated. Even the memories of it made Draco feel sick. When he’d released him, Potter had slumped to the floor, lifeless. But then he’d summoned the strength to get himself to the table with the lure of food, and he was quiet, polite even to Draco, grateful for the food he’d provided. They’d actually had a civil few moments, possibly for the first time since their initial meeting in Madame Malkin’s before they started Hogwarts. Potter was worried for his friends, appearing wholly unconcerned for his own welfare. He never asked Draco for help, never tried to overpower him, he didn’t even try to resist when Dolohov and Selwyn arrived and pulled him from the chair.

When it was obvious that Potter had no intention of responding, Draco spoke again. “Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t think any answer you could give me would help me understand that anyway.” Then he turned and walked out of the compartment. The doors re-sealed themselves, and immediately the train shot away, speeding them away from him. 

He had no idea where he was, but it didn’t matter. He went back up the stairs to find a secluded spot so he could Disapparate away, back to his home with a fresh set of secrets and fears to conceal. Finding a small alcove, he pulled his wand, gripping it. But it felt wrong, too thick, unfriendly in his hand. He looked down at it.

“Shit!” he shouted in anger, “Fucking Potter!  This isn’t my wand!”

~ . ~


	27. Planning and Pining

Hermione sat rigid, watching as Draco turned and walked out of the compartment after his final parting comments to Harry. The doors closed almost immediately behind him, speeding them away from him, but it wasn’t until they were well away from the station before Hermione let out the breath she was holding and relaxed back against the seat. Tilting her head back, she stared up at the ceiling of their compartment. 

“Well, that went better than I expected,” she announced, feeling relief as all the tension melted out of her.

She was just as eager to see the end of this meeting as she had been for the one with Snape, even though she’d felt more confident, better prepared for this encounter, with the time and place not having been dictated to them, but stipulated by them, and also because Harry was so much healthier than he’d been on that last outing. Snape’s motives had been unclear, but she still felt surer of his loyalties than she did when Harry suggested they make contact with Draco. Harry was convinced, however, that Draco would help them.

Ron had been furious at the suggestion, adamantly refusing to go along with it, but Harry was far more stubborn than Ron could ever hope to be, and since they had no better alternatives to put forward, he won in the end. Of course, the only real way to deny Harry would’ve been to tie him down or knock him unconscious, and they all knew it. Once he decided on a course of action, it was nearly impossible to get him to deviate from it. Long experience should have told them that. Arguing with him was pointless. The best they could ever hope for was to have Harry listen to their concerns and take precautions, which he had done on this occasion. And of course, questioning Draco turned out to be profitable. He had been a veritable goldmine of information, saving them a lot of time they might have wasted searching Bellatrix’s home for the Horcrux, though now they had the daunting task of figuring out how to break into her vault.

“Do you think it worked?” Ron asked, and she knew he was referring to the memory charm she’d cast on Draco after Harry questioned him about the Horcrux. 

“Of course, couldn’t you tell? He never even realized it when Harry began to question him again.”

“You were very quick off the mark with that _Obliviate_ , Hermione,” Ron complimented her. “The timing was perfect. Malfoy was really starting to freak out.”

“I know,” she agreed, nodding her head. 

They couldn’t think of any other way to get the information about the Horcrux, its description or location, without asking Draco directly, but leaving him with that kind of knowledge and sending him back to the Dark Lord would’ve been foolish. Still, she hadn’t expected to have to cast it so hastily. Draco may not have understood exactly what they were searching for, but he could sense the danger for himself. 

Seeing his genuine terror as he’d comprehended the gravity of what he’d revealed, the way his hands shook when he’d talked about his father and his fear for himself and his mother, she actually felt a bit sorry for him. She felt guilty for the danger they’d put him in, even though he’d agreed to the meeting and had volunteered the information. He’d looked ill, thin and pale; thinner even than he had when he’d brought them food in the dungeon. Lucius’ death had clearly dealt him a devastating blow. 

“Harry?” Ron prompted when Harry had yet to join the conversation. 

Sitting stiffly, his hands in his lap and his eyes down, Harry studied his wand which he’d pulled from inside his jacket after Draco had left the compartment. His thoughts appeared to be far away from the location of the Horcrux or how successful her _Obliviate_ spell had been. 

Hermione watched him, afraid he was thinking about the news that Dean and Luna were being held by Bellatrix, which had hit her very hard, too, like a blow to the diaphragm that left her winded. Fearing that he was blaming himself for what was happening now to their friends or maybe that he was thinking about Draco’s parting words, about what Harry had done to himself and all the things that had been done to him in that terrible place, she reached out a hand and covered his. 

Draco’s implication that Harry had allowed the Death Eaters torture him, that he’d been somehow complicit in the atrocities committed against him, had annulled a portion of her concern for the acerbic wizard’s welfare. 

“I agree. This one turned out much better than the last,” Harry admitted, finally looking up at Ron as he slid his hand out from under hers. “Though I still think it would have been a lot less hassle just to meet him in the woods and save ourselves all this trouble.”

He waved his hand around to indicate their compartment, which was still under several of her enchantments, as if he merely wanted to free his hand to gesture with it. But she knew he was trying to pull away from her touch, to re-establish their physical boundaries. She drew her hand back into her own lap, the corners of her mouth turned down in a tiny frown at the clear message he’d sent.

He’d made no attempt to remove his arm from Draco’s grip earlier, but he was obviously reinstating the strict, no-touching rule for the three of them. She’d meant nothing by her touch besides an offering of comfort. Yet when Draco had grabbed him roughly by the wrist and yanked him forward, he clearly felt less threatened, despite all the animosity there was between the two wizards. The fact that Draco had taken no part in Harry’s torture seemed to have neutralized his powerful hatred and distrust of Draco. 

“I was just trying to be careful,” Ron replied patiently. “So far so good on this one.”

The plan had been mostly masterminded by Ron. Harry had already decided to ask Dobby to deliver his message to Draco when he’d approached them about wanting to question their old schoolmate. He’d thought it out, and suggested they meet him where they’d run into Draco after the World Cup, a location only the four of them would know. After Ron’s initial explosion at the suggestion, and once it was apparent that there would be no changing Harry’s mind, Ron had dictated the strategy from there, insisting instead that he alone meet Draco in the woods. She and Harry picked the Tube as the meeting place when they’d finally agreed (Harry reluctantly) not to risk his newly regained health on multiple Apparitions, which meant that they would have to meet Draco somewhere in Muggle London. 

Harry thought the whole thing was a bit of overkill, reminding them both that Madame Pomfrey hadn’t placed any restrictions on him, physically or magically, but they weren’t taking any chances. And it really had gone off very smoothly. It was a good plan, one of the first maybe that unfolded as they’d drawn it up, she thought, reminded again of Harry’s angry words when he’d insisted on meeting Snape, about how all their previous plots turned out.

“That might change when he realizes he doesn’t have his wand,” Harry confessed.

“What?” Ron spluttered, dumbfounded.

Hermione, too, was taken aback, confused, thinking for a moment that she must have misunderstood him because she’d seen him give Draco back his wand.

“I kept his, and gave him the blackthorn,” Harry explained, holding up the wand. “So he’s likely to be waiting for us at the next stop to ask for it back.” He looked both sheepish and defiant, a slight flush spreading into his cheeks and neck.

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t!” she cried, now understanding his curiosity about Draco’s wand. The unexpected questions he’d had about it when Ron dropped it in his lap finally making some sense to her.

“What the hell? Why would you do that?” Ron asked, outraged.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “It feels better to me, like I don’t have to force my magic through it. Draco’s wand felt… more suited to me, so I kept it,” he said defensively.

“Christ! He probably Disapparated and told Bellatrix everything,” Ron shouted, knowing the reaction he’d get out of Harry at her spoken name, flaring suddenly with anger. “And I’ll bet she’s summoned all the Death Eaters and You Know Who by now. Why would you do something so stupid?”

“You mean like punching him in the face and breaking his nose before anyone had a chance to ask him a single question? That kind of stupid?” Harry shot back.

Ron glared at him. “I was only trying to subdue him so I could Apparate with him. I didn’t want him struggling and getting us both splinched or getting scared and pressing his Dark Mark.”

“Right. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with how much you hate him. This was your plan, and you almost ruined it yourself. I think maybe you’d hoped to anyway,” Harry accused.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I don’t want to find the rest of the Horcruxes and finish this, too?” Ron asked in disbelief.

“I think you despised the idea of asking him for help so much that you might’ve tried to sabotage it, yeah,” Harry answered angrily, the lines between his eyes and around his mouth going white as his face reddened with mounting anger.

Hermione sat momentarily stunned at the exchange, unable to fathom how this had turned so quickly from a discussion about their successful interrogation of Draco into a heated row, utterly incapable for the moment of doing anything except staring between them in shock.

“Is that so? Well, just because we needed the information he gave us doesn’t mean we had to kiss his arse to get it. You handled him with kid gloves, but I’m not treating him like the prince he thinks he is. He’s his father in training!” Ron said in frustration.

“Look, Ron, I can’t help but be grateful to anyone who was there in that hellhole that didn’t want a pound of my flesh, okay? I’ll go back—”

“No, but he watched everyone else take theirs, though, didn’t—”

“I’ll go back to hating him again after all this is over, maybe,” Harry continued more loudly. “But right now I’ve got a job to do, and I can’t let personal feelings get in the way of it. I’ll cozy up to whoever I have to, regardless of their moral turpitude, if it gets me the information I need.”

“You’re not the only one who has a dog in this fight. I have a job to do, too, and you’re an idiot if you don’t think I want this shit over with.” 

Both of them had leaned forward now, drawing closer together as their anger at each other escalated, while Hermione continued to sit frozen in shock.

“Really? What job did Dumbledore set you, Ron?” Harry asked mockingly. “You know, if it’s getting to be too much for you, I reckon you can just walk away again.” The corner of his lip turned up in a sneer. 

“Harry…” she admonished, finally finding her voice. 

He’d stepped out of bounds with that comment, and it’d been deliberate. She knew it. Always going for that tender spot to send Ron over the edge when he struck, Harry jabbed where he knew it would hurt the worst. Or maybe, she considered for the first time, he was expressing the thing he feared the most: that Ron would leave again, and maybe take her along with him this time; revealing his own vulnerability, seeking reassurance that they wouldn’t abandon him.

Ron went red all over, clenching his fists. “He set me to protect you, you stupid prat! Me, and Hermione. It’s my job to keep you safe, to watch your back or clear the way for you. And in case you hadn’t noticed, that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m not leaving again, no matter how hard you try and push me away. You don’t have to like it, but you damn well better accept it.”

“You keep trying to atone for something that wasn’t your fault, Ron. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. You’re not helping, okay? You’re just getting in my way—”

“Please, let’s stop arguing, okay,” she pleaded, holding her hands up between them, interrupting to try and smother the flare-up of anger before it got worse, because Ron looked ready to grab Harry by the throat and strangle him. “Everything turned out all right. We have the information we needed. Let’s just concentrate on getting back home safely now. Please?”

She’d been feeling like a referee lately. There had been so much tension between Harry and Ron in the last couple of days, an uncomfortable awkwardness in their dealings with each other. They’d become strangers, their conversations either painfully cordial, or heated arguments so that she’d become their mediator. Their estrangement made her feel like she had after Harry’s name had come out of the Goblet of Fire and Ron and Harry had stopped speaking to each other. Except on that occasion, they’d had school and the tournament and a host of other students and teachers to distract them or act as a buffer between them. Now Grimmauld Place had begun to feel claustrophobic in their isolation as all of them tip-toed around each other and pretended not to notice the giant elephant in the room.

“All right, I don’t want to fight. I’m sorry I took his wand,” Harry apologized grudgingly, sliding back against his seat again and crossing his arms over his chest.

Hermione lowered her hands as the fear of them coming to blows lessened. 

“It was impulsive and stupid, but I feel better holding it than that other one. I couldn’t help but make the swap. I just don’t want to have to fight with a wand that feels like it’s fighting me. You know? Maybe he won’t notice right away, maybe the blackthorn will be better suited to Draco than it was to me. Everything went really smoothly. I’m sorry if I fucked it up, okay?”

“We’ll be all right. You haven’t messed anything up, Harry. There was always a chance that Draco would summon help once we left him. We were going to Disapparate just as soon as we pulled into the next station. We’ll just leave a little sooner, before the train stops,” Hermione said. 

“Fine. Then I’m sorry I punched the little pointy-faced pillock. Maybe I was impulsive and stupid, too,” Ron conceded, still red in the face and breathing hard, “but it made me feel better.”

Harry looked disparagingly at Ron for his insincere apology. “Whatever. Did you at least get some of his hair?” he asked.

Ron held up his hand in answer to the question. Pinched between his finger and thumb were a few strands of white blond hair. That had been her idea. It was just for insurance purposes. They had no idea what Draco would be able to provide, willingly or unwillingly, if he even agreed to come. But having his hair as a resource for another round of polyjuice potion seemed a good idea. So they decided to take advantage of the opportunity if it presented itself.

“Here, give me that,” she said, holding her hand out to him to take the hairs. Ron let her pluck them from his fingers. Pulling a tiny flask from her pocket, she placed the hairs inside before stoppering it. “Come on, let’s get ready to go, then,” she told them, getting to her feet. “We’ll need to Apparate as soon as I lift the enchantments on the compartment.”

They both stood. Ron seized Harry by the elbow to steady himself when he lost his balance slightly as the train suddenly began to slow down, nearing the next station. Harry tensed at the unexpected movement, but then caught himself and relaxed his arm, pulling it more slowly though Ron’s grip to grasp him by the hand. She held her hand out to Harry, and he clasped it while she raised her wand with the other.

“Are we ready?” she asked. 

Ron nodded, and then Harry.  She nodded, too, then gripped her wand.

“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” she said firmly, and then, grabbing Ron’s hand, she turned, Disapparating with them. They appeared next moment in the foyer at Grimmauld Place.

“It wasn’t us, Albus,” she said automatically to the dusty apparition of their old Headmaster rushing towards them once her tongue had uncurled itself from Moody’s curse. She hadn’t even spared it a glance, however, staring at Harry instead to check that he was all right, that his breathing wasn’t labored or his nose dripping blood like last time. “Are you okay, Harry?” she asked, still examining him closely, though there appeared to be nothing wrong with him.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, sounding irritated as he nodded and released her hand.  “I’m fine.”

He immediately took a step back from the tight circle and the close contact they all had with each other. But Ron didn’t release him, coming with him as if their hands were fused together. Harry took another step backwards to gain some separation, attempting to distance himself from Ron, to pull himself free, until his back hit the wall. Ron let go of Harry then, only to brace his hand against the wall near Harry’s head, trapping him, and preventing his escape. 

“Ron!” she warned sharply, grabbing the back of his jacket, but he wouldn’t be deterred.

Leaning in close to Harry, pressing him flat against the wall, Ron used his larger size and Harry’s aversion to his nearness to his advantage, wielding the sexual tension between them like a weapon. With nowhere to go, Harry turned his head away from Ron, breathing hard. His nostrils flared as Ron continued to invade his personal space. Intent on continuing their fight from the train, obviously still angry, Ron held Harry pinned against the wall. 

“I’m not trying to fight your battles for you, Harry.” Ron spoke quietly, dangerously, almost directly into Harry’s ear, making the smaller wizard shiver and suck in a sharp breath. “But I will try and get in your way if you’re even thinking of going after Luna and Dean alone,” he warned. 

Harry squeezed his eyes closed a moment, swallowing hard. He was clearly distressed by Ron’s physical proximity. Ron was careful not to touch him. He was not breaking his promise to keep his hands to himself, but he was pushing the boundaries as much as he could. 

Hermione had been observing Harry’s reactions to them, though he’d tried to hide it. The covert glances when he thought no one was watching, the flashes of longing she saw in his eyes when he wasn’t quick enough to look away. She’d felt his eyes on her, and knew he was fighting against it, against them. Ron knew it, too, and it seemed he couldn’t help himself from openly watching Harry, standing a little too close to him or innocently brushing against his arm, on the stairs, or in the hallway. But he’d gone too far now in his anger. This was too much. She yanked hard on his jacket again to pull him away from Harry, but he didn’t budge.

“Ron, stop this now!” she ordered angrily.

“Bellatrix is collecting them,” Ron went on, completely ignoring her as Harry shuddered at her name, “trying to lure you back, counting on your ‘saving-people thing’ to get you to come to her. She’s using them as bait like she did with me and Hermione. It’s suicide, and I won’t let you do it!” Reaching into his pocket, Ron pulled out the Deluminator. “You tell me that Dumbledore didn’t give me a job to do? That he didn’t mean for me to keep close to you, to look out for you? Then why did he give me this?” 

Harry looked down at the Deluminator Ron was waving under his nose. Then he turned his head to stare directly into Ron’s eyes. No longer allowing Ron to intimidate him, Harry gritted his teeth, finally getting himself under control. He remained defiantly silent, though, his jaw clenched, while he stood nearly nose to nose with Ron.

“Remember, I can find you,” Ron threatened. “There’s no point trying to run from us, you understand? It’s just going to make me angry if I have to come after you.”

Harry reached up then, pulling on Ron’s forearm to free himself. Ron let his hand slide from the wall, straightening up as they continued to glare at each other.

“Thanks for the warning,” Harry said flatly, his face going blank, devoid of any expression. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he turned, walking away from them towards the kitchen, while she held Ron back by the grip she still had on his jacket.

“Fuck!” Ron roared in frustration. “You bull-headed arse!”

Harry ignored him and just kept walking. When he’d disappeared from sight, Ron finally turned to her, his hands curled into fists.

“Ron, for God’s sake! You have to stop pushing him away from us,” Hermione shouted, shoving him hard in the chest, outraged at his behavior. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

“He’s about to run, Hermione,” he told her, pointing back down the now empty hallway with the Deluminator still clutched in his hand. “Maybe you can’t see it, but he’s going straight for the bait Malfoy laid out for him, and it’s a trap.” 

“Well, if that’s true, then all you’re doing is giving him reason to run. You’ve got to stop pressuring him, Ron,” she chided.

“This isn’t about my wounded pride, and it doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not he wants us. I know he does, but I’m trying to keep him alive right now, not get him into bed.”

“And I’m trying to salvage our friendship, here, because I’m afraid it’s going to be destroyed if you don’t stop this,” she told him, grabbing him by the wrist. “This isn’t the way, Ron. You could’ve done it differently. You know that kind of intimidation won’t work on Harry.” 

“Fine,” he said, pulling away from her. “I’ll go tell him I’m sorry, get on my knees and beg then. I’ll make him swear he’s not going. I’ll force him to make the Unbreakable Vow or something, but the gloves are off, Hermione. I’ll use whatever tools I have to make him see reason. I’m not letting him run headlong into that. If I have to use my body, my wand, or a damned bat to stop him going, I will.”

Hermione saw in his eyes genuine fear. Ron believed unequivocally that Harry was truly planning to break from them and go off by himself, and soon. She wasn’t sure if it was a powerful premonition or paranoia, and she didn’t know what to say to reassure him because they’d both had feelings recently that Harry was thinking of leaving, of going after Bellatrix and the Horcrux alone.

“All right, Ron,” she said soothingly, stroking his arm. “We’ll figure something out, okay?”

“We can’t let him go,” he whispered, looking terrified, on the verge of tears. 

His fear was so palpable that it frightened her, too, made her own anxiety rise at the imminent danger he believed Harry was in right now. She pulled him to her, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck, holding him by the back of his head.

“We’ll just have to be vigilant, Ron,” she told him as he relaxed his head on her shoulder, his arms at her waist. “We can’t stop Harry if he’s determined to go. We just have to watch for it and be prepared if it happens. Okay?”

“He didn’t even bother denying it.” Ron squeezed her once, sighing heavily before stepping out of her embrace. “Did you notice? He didn’t even try and lie about it or anything.”

“He heard you, Ron. Whether he wanted to or not, he heard what you said.”

Ron nodded reluctantly, and she slid her hand into his, pulling him down the hall, heading for the kitchen and Harry. It was long past lunch, and she was hungry. They were being poor lookouts if he was truly planning to run, standing here arguing in the foyer and leaving Harry alone to take advantage of their absence. She pictured him walking right into the kitchen fireplace to floo straight to Malfoy Manor. It was just the type of thing he’d do, given the opportunity.

They didn’t find Harry sneaking off, however, when they entered the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with Dobby, who’d just placed a steaming bowl of stew and a roast beef sandwich in front of him. Harry completely ignored their entrance as he spoke to the elf.

“I know that was hard for you, Dobby,” he was saying. “I’m sure it was terrifying for you to be back at the Malfoy’s, but we couldn’t have done it without you. I’m really grateful.”

Glancing up at their entrance, Dobby looked a little apprehensive at the obvious tension between the three of them. He had no doubt heard most of the argument, or at least their raised and angry voices down the hallway when they’d arrived. He looked back to Harry, asking for direction. Harry smiled at him reassuringly and nodded his head, as if to say “they’re fine.” Looking relieved, Dobby hopped down and scurried to get their lunch. 

Dobby had been a godsend, a real comfort and help to Harry. Well, all of them, really, since arriving here. She’d resisted the idea of having him come at first, but she couldn’t help but realize how much more difficult things would have been these last few weeks without him. It was clear that he’d been as worried for Harry as she was on this trip, relieved to have him back safely and under his care. He was totally devoted to Harry, downright worshipful, delighted to be serving him, and Ron and her by extension. But if they came in conflict with Harry or his wishes, Hermione knew Dobby would turn on them in an instant to defend him, like he had the day of Ron’s party. Dobby would do anything Harry asked of him without hesitation, no matter what it was. She wondered suddenly if Harry knew just how many people he had that effect on.  She marveled at the thought, grateful, actually, that he seemed completely unaware of it, or at least never tried to take advantage of that loyalty. 

Everyone who came to know Harry felt that same pull to protect him. It was his gift, or curse, maybe, if you were to ask him. Of course, it wasn’t one-sided. Harry inspired that kind of devotion because he himself was that devoted, that protective and loyal to the people he loved, willing to sacrifice anything and everything for them.

She and Ron slid into chairs while Harry began to eat, still ignoring them as Dobby returned with their lunch and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. Hermione pulled her stew towards her, dipping her spoon into the steaming broth when another, more sobering thought occurred to her and stilled her hand. Reminded of the help Dobby had given her in her attempt to get Harry to take his pain potion, she frowned down at her bowl, suddenly suspicious. She hoped that Harry wasn’t in cahoots with the tiny elf in his plans to leave them. Harry was quite formidable on his own, but aided and abetted by Dobby, she and Ron wouldn’t stand a chance of stopping him. It was unlikely that Harry had time to make plans with Dobby to drug their stew while she and Ron were still in the foyer, however, nor did he have any of the pain potion to do it. Although, if he’d been planning it in advance, even before Draco’s news of the new prisoners being held by Bellatrix, Harry could have nicked it from her bag. 

Good lord! She was now just as paranoid as Ron, manufacturing conspiracies in her own mind. Harry had hardly ever acted in a devious manner. It was she who had displayed that kind of behavior: slipping Harry the pain potion without his knowledge, manipulating him into taking a calming draught before the party, blackmailing Rita Skeeter, confunding Cormac McLaggen and then using him to make Ron jealous. She had a long history, but the only time she could remember Harry ever doing anything similar was when he’d pretended to put Felix Felicis in Ron’s drink, and he hadn’t actually even done it! 

She was suspicious of Harry, she realized with some chagrin, because it was a plan she would’ve conceived herself, if it was she who could have employed Dobby’s help. That was her modus operandi, not his. It wasn’t really in his nature to manipulate or cajole. Harry was much more straightforward, and he was a bad liar besides. Still, she avoided the stew and ate her sandwich instead to be safe, thinking that she should check her bag for the potions later and hide them, if he hadn’t already gotten to them. 

They all ate their lunch in awkward silence, with only the sound of spoons scraping against bowls and the chewing and swallowing of food as an accompaniment to their meal. When they finished, they moved to the drawing room where Harry continued his silent treatment.  Sitting in his usual spot on the couch, he worked in his journal again as if she and Ron were just pieces of furniture, ignoring them completely. 

Hermione hated the quiet now. After spending days in that dungeon surrounded by a silencing charm, she almost couldn’t bear it. Needing to hear the hum of conversation, the normal sounds of daily life going on around her, she longed for the cacophony of sounds always present at the Burrow or Hogwarts. The absence of it was like torture to her, nearly making her go mad with anxiety so that she wanted to pull the wireless from her bag and let it fill the room with white noise. But she resisted the urge. It would only prolong the wait. Harry couldn’t refuse to speak to them forever. 

Ron was keeping resolutely mute, too, refusing to apologize to Harry for his atrocious behavior earlier. She decided it was best to stay out of it for the time being. Letting them work it out on their own without her conciliatory hand, she passed the time reading, or pretending to read. In actuality, she was stealing glances at either Ron or Harry out of the corner of her eye every few minutes. Whenever her eyes passed over Harry, they lingered for a moment on his face, at the black eye she’d given him, which was mercifully fading now. She hated this silent Harry, but when he was cornered, when he lashed out, his words could sometimes be vicious, excruciatingly painful. She would never have thought she could ever strike him. It still made her wince every time she saw what she’d done to him. It kept his hateful words on repeat in her mind. She knew he didn’t mean them. He’d been confused and in pain, but hearing them spoken so cruelly made her feel sick.

Harry had suggested she had Stockholm Syndrome. Implying that she and Ron felt guilty for finding their own happiness at his expense, over his sacrifice for them, he said he thought that was why they felt compelled to include him, but she didn’t believe that. Stockholm Syndrome would only apply if Harry had been her captor. Instead, he’d been their savior. So maybe he was more on the mark with the idea that they were feeling gratitude. Ron admitted that he didn’t know what brought it on, but it didn’t really matter anymore. They’d acted on those feelings, regardless of the motivation. 

She’d been stunned initially when Ron leaned down to Harry and kissed him, but seeing Harry’s response was powerful. She’d never seen two men together, and certainly not two men she cared for so deeply. The image of them together like that was unexpectedly erotic, the kiss so sensual, that without hesitation, she had followed Ron’s lead. Once Ron had opened that door, she’d rushed in right behind him, willingly, eagerly. 

The feelings he’d begun to have for Harry might have been new to Ron, but she’d been fighting hers since they first arrived at Grimmauld Place, maybe even since they’d started this journey. They had always been close, but sharing living quarters for months, isolated from the outside world and living daily with the heightened fear and stress, the bond between all of them had grown. It had deepened with the shared sacrifices they’d made for each other and with every trial they’d endured, culminating in their capture and escape from the Malfoy dungeons. Along the way, she’d saved Harry’s life, Ron had saved Harry’s life, and Harry had saved both of their lives. The feelings may have manifested themselves under the most extreme of circumstances, but it didn’t make them any less real.

She was in love with Ron, but she couldn’t fight the attraction to Harry, couldn’t suppress it. God knows she’d tried for Ron’s sake, for Ginny’s, and for Harry’s. Ron had given her the opportunity to express it, though, to share it with him. It didn’t feel wrong. It felt perfect, like a natural progression of their deep friendship, an evolution of their tight bond. Only Harry didn’t seem to agree, and the rift their actions had created was threatening to tear them apart now. But they couldn’t really go back, and they were floundering now, trying to find a way forward.

“I’d like to start tomorrow, staking out the bank,” Harry announced suddenly, starling her by breaking the silence after several long hours of nothing but the sound of the clock ticking, Harry’s quill scratching on parchment, and the turning of barely skimmed pages in her book. “We need to figure out what it is we’re up against.”

She closed the heavy book she’d been pretending to read as Ron sat up straight in his chair. Harry was sitting cross legged on the couch, his journal clutched in his lap, his eyes darting between them to judge their reaction to his pronouncement.

“We can take turns, like we did when we were trying to get into the Ministry. Going under the cloak,” he explained.

“I think that’s a good idea,” she responded, finally. But while she agreed with the concept, she didn’t really fancy the idea of any of them venturing out alone, especially Harry. Her mind was already working again, fearing that Harry would use it as an opportunity to flee. Still, if he was willing to discuss and plan an attempt on the bank that included them, it was a good sign.

“Do you think Bill would help us get into the bank, Ron?” Harry asked. “He works for Gringotts so he can get into the vaults without a key. He brought me some gold from mine one time, the summer before sixth year.”

She felt like an idiot as she listened to him throw out ideas. While she’d spent the last few hours studying him surreptitiously over her book, worrying herself about a reconciliation between Harry and Ron, or what plans Harry might be making to ditch them, Harry was busy working with the information they’d gleaned from Draco, thinking over all their possible avenues into the bank. Things really were getting out of hand. They were no longer working as a team. And it wasn’t Harry that wasn’t trying. Now she and Ron were the obstacles, she thought guiltily.

“Well, he’s in hiding now, too, just like the rest of my family,” Ron began after clearing his throat, which sounded croaky after hours of disuse. “He can’t just go strolling into Gringotts right now any more than we can, but he can at least tell us how to get past the security, maybe.”

“I don’t think we should tell him we’re trying to break into someone else’s vault, though,” she warned. “We should tell him Harry needs access to his own vault and needs to know how to sneak in. That way, we’ll avoid having to answer a lot of awkward questions.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I don’t think he’d refuse to help us, but we can’t really tell him what we’re searching for, can we?” Ron added. “It’s best not to get him too involved.”

“I agree. So it’s settled then? We’ll plan for one of us to be at the bank tomorrow when it opens to have a look around—”

“I’ll do it,” Ron quickly volunteered before she could even open her mouth, thinking like her, possibly, that it would have to be one of them. There was no way they were letting Harry go alone.

Harry glanced at her to see if she had any objection, knowing, of course, why Ron was so eager, but he didn’t argue and neither did she. 

“Fine,” he agreed. “Then we’ll go to Bill’s later in the day if all goes well, see what he can tell us.”

Harry got up off the couch and went to the bathroom when they’d all agreed, and just like that, the conversation was over. When he returned, he’d gone quiet again. He spent the rest of the evening and all through dinner keeping to himself, responding only if they asked him something directly, and then using the fewest words possible. When Harry headed up to bed that evening, Ron finally gave in, speaking for the first time in hours. 

“Harry?” Ron called after him, halting Harry at the door, but he didn’t turn around. “Harry, I’m sorry about earlier, okay? I just… please don’t go, all right?” he pleaded, gripping the arms of his chair. “Say you’re not going alone… say you’re not going at all. Please?”

Harry stood there a moment with his back to them. Then he let out a heavy sigh and walked out of the room without a word. Ron squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head at Harry’s departure. 

Hermione watched him go, feeling her own sense of dread seeping into her. Ron was right. Harry wasn’t even trying to deny that he was making plans to leave. 

They followed him to bed shortly after, but she knew it would be a sleepless night even as she crawled under the blankets and curled up against Ron. Harry had left his door open as he had every night since they began sleeping across the hall from each other. She knew her ears would be straining for the sound of him creeping down the hall as she closed her eyes, knew that every creak and pop of the house would have her sitting bolt upright on the bed, listening for his escape. And that’s how she found herself, in the dead of night, leaning against the doorjamb of Harry’s room, her arms wrapped around herself, cold after the warmth of Ron and her bed, wearing just one of his thin t-shirts. 

Leaving Ron snoring softly, she’d slid out of bed and padded quietly to Harry’s door to peer in at his darkened form once again. She’d been up twice in the night already to check on him, to reassure herself that he was still there, that he hadn’t snuck out on his own. 

She hated him being in the bedroom across the hall from them, hated that they weren’t all still together in Sirius’ room, and not just because it was so much easier for him to sneak away now. She missed the quiet conversations they’d shared, yearned for the closeness she felt with him in those moments, knowing they could repair their friendship if only they’d just had that opportunity now. Time to talk with their barriers down, speaking with an openness that the darkness always seemed to provide.

“How many times are you going to come in here and check on me?” Harry asked her softly, which startled her nonetheless.

Hermione let out an exasperated breath at being caught. “How did you know I was here?” she asked, whispering to his silhouette as he turned to face her.

“It’s getting close to the full moon,” he replied. “It’s been messing with my senses... and my mind.” He sighed, scooting up to sit with his back against the headboard. “I can hear you breathing and the rustling of your shirt when you crossed your arms,” he explained in a hoarse whisper. “I could hear you brushing your hair back off your shoulder when you came to stand there in the doorway. I can smell the lavender scent of the shampoo you use, too, like you’re standing right next to me.” 

He was merely stating the facts, answering her question, but his words sounded so seductive to her, though she knew he didn’t mean them that way, not purposefully, anyway. But his voice held a note of longing that she didn’t think was her imagination. It made her warm all over, fidgeting nervously at the door. She heard him take a deep breath and then sigh again.

“I can also hear Ron shifting on the bed, restless maybe, because even asleep, he knows you’re gone. I can smell him on you, too. Spicy, like cinnamon, and the way it smelled when we were camping in the woods, kind of earthy, you know? Like damp leaves and the smoke from a campfire, and how the hell does he even smell like that all the time anyway?”  

“You always smell like mint to me now,” she told him, smiling slightly at his confused thoughts about Ron, “and the way it smells after it rains, like your skin should feel cool to the touch, but it’s just the opposite, you’re always so warm.”

“Go back to Ron, Hermione… please,” he pleaded with her, as if he knew she was fighting the urge to go to him.

But she didn’t want to obey, not when he sounded like this, so lonely and sad. Not when she thought he needed them this badly. Not when she knew he was so close to giving in, to getting up off his bed and following her back to Ron. Not when she was afraid that instead, he might run like hell when she turned her back on him. 

Her heart was racing now, with fear, with desire.  She didn’t come here for this, but she couldn’t stop herself pursuing it. “Come with me, Harry,” she urged him, taking a step towards him.

She heard his breath hitch, a soft hissing of air as he held up a shadowed hand to ward her off.

“No, please don’t come any closer, all right?” 

Ignoring his pleading, she stepped into the room anyway. She heard him let out a soft moan of protest, but she only came in and sat on the bed closest to the door, her back against the wall and her knees pulled to her chest. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she propped her chin on her knees, still staring at his dark form.

“I wasn’t asleep the other morning, Harry,” she confessed, and she knew that he understood what she meant by the way he’d gone completely still.

She had no idea what in heaven’s name had her suddenly confessing this. Why she was trying to provoke him now, or what she hoped to gain from this admission. Only that she wanted him to understand that it wasn’t just Ron that wanted to be with him. That things between them had started long before his disastrous turn in the shower, and that Ron wasn’t pushing her to accept a relationship with him. 

He was quiet a long time before he finally spoke, his voice shaking slightly. “Why didn’t you push me off you? Why didn’t you stop me? After what I did?” 

“Well, for one, I knew you weren’t really awake. I was afraid to wake you up. Afraid you’d freak out,” she said, and for the first time, she wasn’t being entirely truthful. 

“Oh, God, Hermione! I’m so sorry,” he apologized, sounding completely mortified. “I didn’t know what I was doing, I was half asleep. I never meant to—”

“I know. It wasn’t your fault. Things like that happen,” she offered lamely.

“Not to you… well, not by me!”

“Harry, you’re fighting against something that’s being offered to you freely, and I know you want to take it,” she said, sliding back off the bed and walking slowly towards him. “The truth is, I didn’t want to stop you then, and I don’t want to stop this now. I don’t want you to be alone in here. I don’t want you to say no.”

“Why are you doing this?” he whined in frustration, squeezing himself into the corner and drawing his knees up to his chest protectively as she sat down next to him on his bed. “You’re complicating everything. It’s not right, what you’re asking. Why can’t you and Ron just be happy with each other?”

“Because you’re not happy,” she answered simply.

“And so you’re willing to just throw away your own happiness for me?”

“I don’t think I’m throwing anything away. Ron and I love you, Harry.”

“You feel guilty, you feel like you owe me something,” he accused.

“No. It’s not guilt or gratitude, and I’m not suffering under the delusions of some psychological condition, either,” she countered. “I love you. It’s not the same way I’m in love with Ron. It’s different, but no less powerful. The feelings are just as intense to me, and I know you feel it, too, Harry.” She rested her hand on the lump she knew was his foot, and he let out a tiny whimper of fear. “We were all traumatized so much in that terrible place, and we need each other to heal from that,” she continued, her voice low and soft, trying not to frighten him further. “No one can imagine the horror we’ve been through. No one can understand how much this journey has changed us, how it’s reshaped our lives and forged our deep connections. And no one loves you more than Ron and I do, Harry. They have no idea what you suffered for us, what it cost you. We’re the only ones who can give you what you need right now, and that’s all we want to do. We just want to take care of you.”

“That’s guilt, or pity. Don’t you see it?”

“It doesn’t matter what it is. You can give it a name, you can make an excuse for it, but it won’t make it go away. It won’t stop what’s already happened between all of us, what is happening between us.”

“Oh, God! Why can’t things just go back to the way they were before?” he cried.

“Before when? Before we were captured? Before Dumbledore died? Before Sirius? Before you entered the maze in the Tri-Wizard Tournament? Before when, Harry?” she asked him quietly, stroking his foot to soothe his agitation. “I’ve thought on it, too, wished the same thing, but when do you stop going back? At what point do you just have to stop and accept where you are right now? We can’t undo what’s happened to us, what we’ve done and seen.”

“This is just making everything more difficult. Don’t you understand? I can’t separate myself from the two of you enough to do what I need to do. I’m too terrified of something happening to either of you to get on with it.”

“You’re thinking with your emotions and not with your brain. You can’t finish this alone. You need us to help you. You think we don’t know how perilous this will be? That we don’t realize the danger? It’s only going to get more treacherous for all of us if we’re separated or working against each other.”

“I’ve got to keep fighting this, Hermione. I have to. It’s going to destroy us all.”

“All right,” she conceded. “I’ll stop pushing, but I don’t think I can convince Ron to stop trying. I don’t want to ruin our friendship over this. You’re my most cherished friend, Harry, and I love you with all my heart. I only want us to be close again. I miss you. I miss this.” She motioned between them. “I miss lying next to you at night. I miss waking up with you in the morning. I couldn’t bear it if you leave.” She reached out a hand to cup his face. “You’re so beautiful, Harry,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across the cheekbone she’d bruised so badly, his skin so warm against her cold hands.

Harry’s whole body had gone rigid on the bed at her touch. She could feel his rapid breath on her wrist, his pulse throbbing against her fingers as he swallowed repeatedly, trying to fight down his fear, to get control of himself like he’d had to in the foyer with Ron.

“Go back to Ron, and close the door tonight, okay? Hermione, Please?” he begged her, his voice cracking from the strain. “I promise, I’m not leaving.”

Giving in, conceding defeat finally, she leaned into him and pressed her lips lightly against his for just a moment while he held his breath. His whole body shuddered as he gripped the blankets in his fists. Then she pulled back, staring into his shadowed face.

“You’re an awful liar, Harry,” she whispered.

~ . ~


	28. The Wolf at the Door

Harry found himself pressed against the wall again. Trembling in the dark, his heart pounded like a frightened child startled awake by a terrible dream. But what was scaring him wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It was flesh and bone, warm breath and soft skin, sitting next to him in nothing but a thin shirt and cotton knickers. She was like a demon, a succubus, come to drain his soul, tempting him with her nubile body, seducing him with her whispered words. Hermione felt more menacing to him now, as he fought her insidious allure, than any fearsome beast he’d ever imagined as a young boy locked in his dark, cramped cupboard. 

He never should have spoken to her. He should’ve continued to feign sleep, like he had on her previous visits to his room tonight, and let her go back to her own bed when she was satisfied he hadn’t fled in the night. Instead, he’d foolishly acknowledged her presence, effectively inviting her in by initiating the conversation. Now her physical proximity was making him mute, as completely taciturn as he’d been earlier with Ron in the foyer. 

They were conspiring against him. He was sure of it. His mind had begun to fester with fear and paranoia. His growing dementia was making him certain that she and Ron were now tag-teaming him. They appeared hell bent on driving him mad, chipping away at his fragile mental state, inching him towards insanity as they actively campaigned to keep him on edge. His mind and body were on high alert, so that even innocent or accidental touches sent him running for cover. Fearing that a single brush of fingertips against his bare skin might be the catalyst that would send him careening over the edge, that the feel of a caress would push him past his threshold for endurance, Harry was scared for either one of his best friends to touch him anymore or even be too near him. 

Believing he was cursed, the butt of a cruel, cosmic joke, Harry was convinced that the gods had some personal vendetta against him, just one more to add to the long list of those plotting his destruction. He must have been completely reprehensible in a previous life for them to pursue him into the next with such a vengeance. 

Hermione had finally removed her hand from his foot, agreeing to stop pressuring him, but he couldn’t relax. Those were just words meant to trick him into letting down his guard, to cause him to loosen the tenuous grip he still had on his self-control. She’d ignored all his other pleas tonight so that he couldn’t trust her, and she was still too near him, imprisoning him on his own bed as he sat huddled against the wall with his knees pulled against his chest like a shield. 

The approaching full moon and his regained health, coupled with the timing of Ron and Hermione’s sexual advances, had created a perfect storm inside him. His sharpening senses were flooding him with an intoxicating mixture of smells and sounds, the sheer multitude of which was wearing him down with its constant barrage, priming him so that his body was in a near constant state of arousal, which he couldn’t relieve. The feeling was horribly reminiscent of those vile potions Bellatrix and then Madame Pomfrey had forced down him. It tortured his mind and body so that he found himself wishing for the flames of Madame Pomfrey’s potion to consume him once more, to cauterize his senses and burn away the aching desire he felt for them both. 

Harry wanted at least two locked doors between them, preferably a house or two apart for good measure, just to be safe. Believing that if he could only hide, lock himself away from Ron and Hermione, maybe just until the moon waned, he could get his head on straight. That belief and his fear of himself made him unable to embrace the relationship they sought so relentlessly. As fucked up as he was, he didn’t think he was even capable of reciprocating, of truly acting on his urges anyway, but what if he succumbed to his desire? What if he submitted to them and while they were together like that, he panicked? What if it caused a flashback so powerful that he forgot where he was or who he was with, and then, hysterical with fear, believed they were Bellatrix and Rudolphus? What kind of destruction would he be capable of in his frantic effort to escape? Possessed by that madness, he wouldn’t be able to protect them, not if he lost control of himself, not if he lost his grasp on reality. He couldn’t save Ron and Hermione from the threat he himself would pose to them. 

They were blind, unable to see it, but Harry was a landmine lying in their path, waiting to be tripped. He’d tried to share with Hermione his fear of that danger, tried to explain to Ron that he was broken, but they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t believe he would hurt them, or naively thought they could heal him. Not truly comprehending that threat, they ignored all the signs of the madness metastasizing within him. Unwilling to heed his dire warnings, they continued to press him, to torment him, oblivious to the horrors they might reap if they put enough pressure on the right spot and he exploded again. There was no way to escape the torment either, to siphon off the pressure building inside him, because he was too scared to touch himself now, too. Terrified if he did, it would unleash the horrible visions of Bellatrix hovering in the dark places of his subconscious, to infect his mind again with that corrosive poison and propel him back into that tenebrous black hole. He might not be able to crawl out if he was swallowed up by the darkness again, left in perpetuity to drown in that numb state, like some poor, hapless victim of a Dementor’s kiss.

The only recourse left to him had been to turn that fear and sexual aggression into anger, to force Ron and Hermione away from him before he rained fire down on all their heads. That relief had come at the expense of their friendship, but it had been the only outlet he had, until today. Today he’d found a new way to alleviate some of his stress, a new way to drain some of the poison inside him, or an old way rediscovered. Of course, there were drawbacks. It wasn’t a perfect solution. There was no panacea for all of his problems, but it helped with his most pressing one at the moment. It came with consequences, however.

There was always a price to pay for everything, Harry was learning, and what he’d traded for the relief he needed was additional guilt, fear and anxiety. There was fear that Ron and Hermione would find out, anxiety about what he was doing, and guilt about hiding it from them. If they knew, though, they’d be horrified. He wouldn’t be able to make them understand that he wasn’t causing any permanent damage. He’d injured himself worse scraping his knees as a child on the pavement. He wasn’t harming any nerves or muscles, not like he had before. These cuts were shallow and would heal quickly. And if they left marks, what did it matter? What were a few more scars added to a body already so littered with them? Among the rest, these new, small wounds he was inflicting would hardly be noticed. Most people never saw past the first one he’d received, anyway, the one he was least able to hide, the one he’d thought as a young boy was sort of cool, until Hagrid came for him and he’d learned the truth about its origin. It was the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, given to him by Tom Riddle all those years ago, fulfilling a prophecy to supposedly mark Harry as his equal, and setting him on this path of destruction, his own or Tom’s or both. It was the scar for which he was so famous, the one that defined him for so many in the wizarding world, keeping him from the anonymity he craved, never allowing him to be simply Harry. It was like a neon sign pointing him out everywhere he went, tangible proof that announced him to them all as The Boy Who Lived, or The Chosen One, and now, Undesirable Number One _._

For those who were able to look beyond that notorious disfigurement, they would see the myriad of other scars that covered his body. Some he’d acquired on his own, but most were souvenirs he’d collected from his encounters with Tom and his followers. The most recent ones, the most severe, were from the Death Eaters that had spent so much time schooling him in the art of torture; badges earned from the week long course in appreciating agony he’d involuntarily undergone at Malfoy Manor. 

Teaching himself how to embrace the pain, to crave it, Harry had learned how to lose himself in the misery it wrought. The places it had taken him had, at times, been magnificent. He’d never discovered more about himself, who he was at his core, than he had being taught to endure the suffering during the days spent in the throes of that excruciating pain. 

They’d ripped him apart in those lessons, pried him open, stripped him down, and then reshaped him so that he was barely recognizable anymore, molding him into some sadistic piece of art. A slightly warped caricature of himself reminiscent of a Picasso created during a violent schizophrenic episode. Their fists pounding his malleable flesh, shattering bones, swelling and contorting his features had transformed his pale skin into hues of black, purple, blue and green. Burning and tearing his flesh with shouted spells and sharpened knives, they’d smeared his blood like paint on the tattered canvas of his body, and then left him hanging on the wall by his emaciated limbs so that their work could be admired. The anguish required for its creation had sometimes been beautiful, but it had taken time for Harry to truly acquire a taste for that agony, difficult at first, for him to appreciate their artistic interpretation. 

He was worried initially, when that desire to harm himself had come flooding back after so long. He thought he’d beaten it back, but he hadn’t felt an urge that strong since the early days of his recovery. He realized now that it had been near the full moon then, too, and that the desire had faded with the light from that celestial orb, the buildup of toxins slowing after those first few days as it began to wane. The understanding brought relief that these feelings and actions would soon fade again with the shifting lunar phase, taking with it his crippling fear of spreading it to Ron and Hermione. If he could just keep the secret until then, when it lost its powerful pull on him, he’d come back to himself once more and be able to stop bloodletting. That’s the lie he told himself, anyway, and he was getting so good at bending the truth recently, so accustomed to deluding himself, that he almost believed it, too.

He hadn’t actually even been looking for some kind of outlet when he found it. He was a little nervous, maybe, at the prospect of meeting Draco, but he wasn’t frantic to relieve the pressure inside him at the time. Not yet, not like he was now. He’d just accidentally nicked himself shaving. But standing in front of the mirror, he found himself mesmerized, watching the tiny drop of blood well up and slowly travel down his neck. And he couldn’t stop the memories as he lifted his hand and caught the droplet on his finger. He remembered how easily the knife had penetrated his skin that day, remembered that wonderful feeling of release as his blood gushed out of him, and the serenity that stole over him as he watched it rushing to flee his dying body. 

Dumbledore had said Harry’s blood was much more valuable than his own when he’d spilled his at the cave entrance on that fateful night. But not this blood, Harry thought, as he’d stared at it on his fingertip while small amounts still trickled from the tiny cut at his throat. This blood was tainted, riddled with disease. It might have been his imagination, but he believed he could see the red tinged with black, the poison mixing with it as he examined it under the bathroom lights.

Harry had meant to kill himself that day in Sirius’ bathroom, after he left Ron and Hermione at the Burrow, and nearly succeeded. But not this time. This time he just wanted to feel the calmness he hoped it would bring him, even if just for a little while, and he hadn’t been disappointed. The cut was shallow, not enough to do him any damage or cause too much blood loss, but the feeling of peace it gave him, the immediate rush of relief, was ecstasy. He could actually feel the poison draining out of him while he stood there and watched it flow out of the gash he’d hidden in the crook of his elbow to drip into the sink. Afterwards, he’d felt relaxed, tranquil, as if he’d taken a small dose of calming draught, but without the debilitating side effects the potion caused in him. The reprieve had only been temporary, however. Harry knew almost immediately after the bleeding had stopped that he would turn to it again, that he would need the relief only it could bring. He’d wanted to after his fight with Ron today, but he hadn’t been able to without fear of drawing their suspicion, not as closely as they were watching him. And he wanted to again right now, too, needing that same release once more, to quell his hunger for her as she sat next to him like an ethereal siren, giving off powerful pheromones, filling him with desire and longing.

Her scent was all around him, the smell of her own arousal seeping into his pores, making him ache all over, making the monster in his chest roar to life again. Hermione’s face was in shadow as she spoke, and it only added to the image he’d conjured in his tortured mind of her as some beguiling spirit. Gesturing between them, she wafted those scents towards him to continue her seduction, holding him spellbound while she spoke of how much she missed sharing a bed with him. Of how much she missed their friendship and the intimacy that had been growing between them. Of how much she loved him. 

Afraid to speak, afraid of what he would say, or what he might admit, Harry remained silent, entranced by her words, as she reached out of the darkness then and cupped his face. Her hand felt cold against his skin, which was fevered from the war waging in his veins. His whole body went rigid at her touch, too frightened to move as if she’d frozen him solid where he sat with the power of that single gesture. His heart was pounding, his blood throbbing in his veins, his breathing ragged as he fought to maintain control of himself.

“You’re so beautiful, Harry,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone, the one still bearing the mark from where she’d struck him. As if she’d heard his echoing reply anyway, the words he wouldn’t give voice, confessions he hadn’t allowed himself to speak. Admitting that he missed her, too, desperately, that he ached with loneliness in this room, that it reminded him so much of the depression he’d fallen into following Sirius’ death and of the feeling of isolation he’d felt here at Christmas, thinking he was being possessed by Voldemort after his vision of the attack on Mr. Weasley. 

His cheek burned, the coolness of her touch scalding the skin, leaving a tingling sensation across the path her thumb had travelled. He closed his watering eyes involuntarily at that gentle caress. The feel of her hand, the stroke of her fingers a command he felt compelled to obey. Fighting to keep the moan from escaping his chest, he tried to resist the urge to press his face into her hand, to nuzzle against the cool skin of her palm and beg for the affection he so badly craved.

“Go back to Ron, and close the door tonight, okay? Hermione, please?” he begged her, his voice straining as he tried to shake off her spell, tried to hold back the monster inside him which had taken form now, had a face. It was the face of a wolf, a feral, wild-eyed wolf, which was frantic to satisfy its need for this wicked temptress, rabid with the desire to bend her pliable, accommodating body to its depraved will. “I promise, I’m not leaving.”

He was prepared to promise her anything, desperate to make her leave, to end the cruel game she was playing with him because he’d met his threshold, and his will was crumbling, the bars caging the beast growing brittle, rotting through. Instead, she drew closer still and pressed her soft lips against his. 

 _Please no!_ Feeling frantic, the hysteria within him building, he pressed himself as far into the corner as he could and held his breath, his heart beating double-time. Clutching the blankets, he tried to keep himself from grabbing Hermione and crushing her against him or shoving her violently away in his bid for escape. Harry fought against the instinct to tangle his hands in her hair, to push her onto her back and cover her body with his own. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to hold himself together before he broke into pieces, and finally, mercifully, she pulled away. 

Letting out the breath when he could hold it no longer, he tried to breathe through his mouth to avoid her intoxicating aroma, the mixture of her own scent and Ron’s that had him starving for her, but it wasn’t working. He felt as if he could taste her in the air, remembering vividly how she tasted that last morning they’d shared on Sirius’ bed, when he’d found himself between them. He clamped his mouth closed again to keep from panting like a dog, and swallowed down the saliva sliding down the sides of his tongue to pool in his mouth. He was losing this battle, and he was afraid of what he might do if the wolf got loose, if he set it free. His mind was in a complete haze of desire, flooded with images of those few passionate moments, memories that he constantly relived now whether asleep or awake, driving almost all his thoughts and actions since the minute they’d occurred.

“You’re an awful liar, Harry,” she whispered.

Her warm breath ghosted over him like a caress, and all the hairs stood up on his arms as his control finally shattered. Pushed past endurance, he was whimpering again, shaking all over. What little light was available in the room seemed to grow darker as his vision turned to blackness, and all other sound was extinguished with the roaring in his ears. 

“You’re the liar,” he accused, his voice a soft, hoarse growl spoken through gritted teeth, the sound mirroring the sound of the hungry wolf in his chest. 

She’d said she would stop pushing. She said she’d only wanted to repair their friendship, but that was a lie. She would never stop, and neither would Ron. He knew it now. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d leaned into her then, or she’d leaned back into him, but his mouth was suddenly on Hermione’s again, swallowing her reply, silencing whatever defense she might have made, or more lies she wanted to tell. His knees remained a barrier between them, protecting him from the full contact of her body pushing against him as she surged forward. His limbs were still frozen, his hands continuing to grip the blankets, but his tongue was in her mouth, stroking hers, mapping its contours, sampling her flavor while the wolf growled its approval, finally getting a taste of what it so desperately wanted from her. 

Hermione slid the hand cupping his face onto the back of his neck. Running her fingers up into his hair, she clutched at his head in a reversal of their positions in the dungeon with his back against the wall now. She held him to her to continue their explosive kiss which was growing more urgent, the passion building in intensity despite his fear of what that escalation would bring as she tugged his bottom lip between her teeth and tilted his head for better access.

God, she felt and tasted unbelievably good! He was groaning into her mouth now hungrily. He was in free fall, lost again experiencing her, confused about what was reality, with her soft lips molded to his and her hands in his hair. Hermione’s face and hands were chilled, but her mouth was so warm and wet as he delved into it. She was pulling him further into her, and he was letting her, flooded again by the memories of his actions and thoughts of her together with him in the dungeon with this bizarre role reversal. 

Suddenly he was reliving the terrible agony he’d felt in those moments when he stood nose to nose with her before he forced himself on her. Feeling the same familiar strain in him now as he’d felt then, trying to hold himself back, struggling against the effects of the potion which had made him so wild for her, as wild as Greyback’s infection was making him now. He remembered the smell of her hair, the scent of her skin behind her ear, along her neck as he’d bitten down and pushed into her, forever damning himself, taking from her what Bellatrix and the potion demanded of him while she’d tried, unsuccessfully, to fight him off. 

Tears had begun to leak out of his eyes which were squeezed shut against the memories of that hell to slide down his cheeks. He was trembling all over, locked in the iron grip of those awful images. With their mouths still fused together, the horror and guilt of what he’d done was blending with the pleasure he’d derived from her then and was deriving from her now.

Attempting to calm him, to relax the stiffness of his limbs, and ease the trembling of his body, Hermione ran her hand down his arm, stroking him, reassuring him. But it only left behind a trail of more tingling, more seared flesh from those icy fingers against his heated skin. She reached his hand and then gently pulled. Urging him to release the grip he still had on the blankets, to place it on her bare thigh, he thought, like it had been in the dungeon, so that he might grip her again while he took her, to leave bruises once more on her tender flesh. Maybe instead, she intended to place his hand at her waist, or to cover her breast, encouraging him to go further with her tonight. Or maybe she meant to pull him up off his bed and back to her own where a sleeping Ron lie waiting for them, ready to consummate this dysfunctional relationship. Harry didn’t know, but whatever her motivation, he hung on, clinging to the blanket, refusing to release his grip as if it were the only thing tethering him to Earth. He couldn’t take what he needed from her again. He couldn’t use her like that, no matter how badly his body was screaming for it. It was a path that led to total insanity.

“Stop, please,” he cried breathlessly, bumping his head against the wall as he pulled away from her finally. “I just… I can’t do this. I can’t give you what you and Ron want from me. I want to, but I can’t.”

He couldn’t get enough air. He was being held captive by her, fighting against the riot breaking out inside him. The walls was spinning and he was dizzy, light headed as if all the oxygen were being sucked from the room while he spiraled hopelessly out of control.

“Please don’t make me do this,” he begged. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did, Hermione.” 

The violent trembling of his limbs and the clenching of his stomach made him feel like he was going to be ill. He was shaking loose again, falling apart, like he had at her feet in the dungeon, his words echoing the pleas he’d made to Bellatrix. This whole encounter felt like some twisted reenactment. A painful, warped reliving of those horrible events orchestrated for his destruction.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, wiping at his damp cheeks.“It’s okay. Everything is going to be all right.”

“It hurts,” he moaned as he began to hyperventilate. “I’m not… I’m not capable of this.” 

“All right, Harry. It’s all right. You don’t have to. Just hush now.” She stroked his hair, sounding alarmed, as she tried to soothe his hysteria and the frenzied shaking of his limbs while he gasped for breath. “I’m sorry. No one is going to make you do anything, no one will hurt you. I promise. Just calm down now. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He’d already had sex with six people, seven if you counted what he’d done with Snape, all of them participants in his rapes or recipients of acts he’d been forced to perform. The number staggered him if he let himself think on it. None of them were the person he’d hoped to be with in that way, and now never would. None of them were the person he’d fantasized sharing that experience with whenever he’d allowed himself to dream of the future. None of them were Ginny. Every one of those sexual encounters had been the perpetration of a crime against him. He hadn’t volunteered for any of it, and he’d fought with everything he had to prevent those violations from happening, despite what Draco believed. What he was doing with Hermione now didn’t feel truly voluntary either. He hadn’t pursued this. Instead, he’d been fighting against her from the minute she’d stepped into his room with about as much success as he had fending off all the others.

One of those forced copulations had been with Hermione. He’d condemned himself in an effort to protect her from the same fate Greyback had left him to suffer, if the savage werewolf would have left her alive at all. It had been the only occasion where Harry had ever offered himself to Bellatrix. He’d have given her anything, though, would have agreed to whatever depraved acts she wanted him to do or would have done to him, if he could spare his friends. Hermione certainly hadn’t volunteered to be his partner in the performance Bellatrix wanted out of him in demonstration of her power over Harry for her audience of Death Eaters. She hadn’t willingly given herself to him. She hadn’t wanted what he’d done to her then, but she wanted him now. It was she who was initiating this, choosing him freely, and she was asking him to add Ron to that list, too. But he wasn’t in complete control of his faculties right now. His free will was being compromised. He felt coerced by Ron and Hermione, compelled by the moon’s influence to act outside of his own conscience, sacrificing the contentment of their deeply devoted friendship to satisfy a craving for something he believed would result in its complete destruction. 

Even though she had every right to demand whatever she desired of him in compensation for what he’d taken from her, Harry simply wasn’t able to give her what she was asking. She deserved more than just his endless remorse for what he’d done. He owed her so much more than that, but he could never give back what he’d stolen, and the price she wanted would cost him too deeply. His sanity was more than he could pay.

Why did she have to come here tonight? It was so much worse at night, the desire, the madness, bubbling up, rising inside him along with the moon. It settled back again with the sun, becoming more manageable in the daylight when it had less influence on him. Why couldn’t she have come then, when he could have resisted her?

He tilted his head back against the wall, taking deep wheezy breaths, finally releasing his grip on the blankets to wrap his quaking arms around his knees. Trying to hold himself together, to get himself back under control and swallow down the nausea, he concentrated on steadying his heart rate while she sat next to him in the dark. Rubbing his arm again, she listened for his breathing to slow, while continuing to whisper reassurances and apologies.

He’d been stronger than this in the dungeon, endured so much worse. Why couldn’t he keep it together anymore? Why was this so hard for him? Where was the stubborn will Bellatrix claimed he possessed? He didn’t understand why Ron and Hermione could shatter him with such ease. How they could dismantle his defenses with almost no effort at all, when it had taken so much more for the Death Eaters to finally break him. 

She scooted back from him finally and replaced her hand on his foot when his sharp intakes of breath had quieted back into normal breathing and the dizziness had passed, when the air pressure seemed to have been restored to the room. Softly stroking him, she continued to try and calm him. 

They sat like that for several long minutes, until the shaking subsided and his fear lessened, until his thumping heart had slowed its frantic pace. Then he dropped his head to his knees, weak with fatigue from the mental and physical struggle, emotionally exhausted from his battle with her for control of the wolf inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into his knees, finally breaking the silence.

 “No, I’m sorry,” she replied. “You were right, Harry, I am the liar, but I swear, I never intended for that to happen. I didn’t come here to try and seduce you. I didn’t mean to pressure you. Truly, I didn’t. I meant it when I said I would stop pushing. I only wanted to repair things between us, but I’ve made them worse. I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me.” The words flooded out of her mouth in a rush of breathless apologies. She was gripping his foot now, almost painfully in her earnest pleading for his forgiveness. "I only meant to convince you not to leave us, Harry. I know I’ve given you even more reason to go, but please don’t.”

“I can’t stay here anymore. Being across the hall from you isn’t good enough. You’re making me crazy, both of you. You see what I’m like. I can’t endure this.” Lifting his head again, he sniffed, wiping at his running nose, brushing at his eyes. “I know it’s me. I know I’m the one fucking things up all the time, and I’m sorry, Hermione, but I meant it when I said I was broken. I’m not myself right now. You have to get away from me. You’re tormenting me, both of you, and it’s dangerous. I’m dangerous. You don’t understand what this is doing to me.” 

“I promise, Harry. I promise to keep my distance. I’ll do whatever you want. Ron and I will respect your wishes. Please believe me,” she urged, her voice trembling. “I’m begging you.  Just don’t abandon us. Please, we love you so much.” 

She was crying now, too, and he hated that. He hated that he couldn’t stop making her cry, couldn’t stop being the reason for it, but what was he supposed to do? 

“Go back to your room then. Please, all right? Don’t make me beg you anymore. Just go back to Ron.” 

“Okay… all right,” she agreed, nodding her head, yet still she made no attempt to return to her room, continuing to sit next to him in the darkness, both of them sniffling now. 

He waited while the silence stretched between them, waited for her to leave. Then, when it seemed she could not, or would not leave on her own, he lowered his legs down slowly, pushing against her thigh with his feet, inching her off his bed. Finally she took the hint, standing up to keep from sliding off onto the floor. 

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked, still reluctant to walk away, afraid to leave him alone after the bedlam she’d created. Standing beside the bed, she wiped at her face, her dark form staring down at him.

“No. I’m not. I’m not going to be okay. I’m a complete disaster, Hermione, but you can’t fix it. You and Ron can’t fix it, and I need you both to stop trying. The best thing you can do for me right now is leave me alone. All right?”

She nodded her head and wiped at her eyes again. Then she straightened up, taking in a deep breath before blowing it out on a shaky sigh. “It’s Ron and I that are making a mess of things, Harry. Not you, and I’m sorry. I can’t stop saying it, but I don’t know how to else to convince you how sincerely I mean it. I know we’ve botched things badly with you. All the mistakes we’ve made, though, we made with the best intentions. We’ve only ever wanted to be with you and to help you through this.”

Turning reluctantly, Hermione walked away from him then when he only nodded his head in reply. She paused at the door, bracing her hand against the doorjamb, her body just an outline against the slightly more illuminated hallway.  “Goodnight, Harry,” she whispered. Then without waiting for a response, she let out a soft breath and stepped quietly out of his room, finally returning to Ron.  

She didn’t close her door. He didn’t expect she would. Hermione might have agreed to stay away, but her conciliatory efforts would only go so far. She wouldn’t allow any physical barriers to separate them, any obstacles to act as a hindrance in her path to him. She had no intention of actually letting him out of her sight, of letting him run unimpeded.

He heard her slide back under the blankets next to Ron, listened as Ron stopped snoring for a minute, mumbling in his sleep while they both readjusted themselves against the other before going still again. Then Harry relaxed, his whole body going limp with relief. Staring up at the ceiling, he blew out an agonizing breath. The torment had finally ended, but there would be no more sleep for him tonight, and that was going to make tomorrow even harder to endure as they drew ever closer to the full moon. 

Harry thought again about fleeing, maybe to the attic and barricading himself in for the next few days, but he didn’t know a locking spell that Hermione couldn’t counter. He considered simply running, but he was reminded of Ron’s warning in the foyer. That cursed Deluminator Dumbledore had given him would keep them right behind him no matter where he went, unless Harry could steal it from Ron, could somehow wrest it from his grip before Apparating away with it. Knowing Hermione, though, Harry thought she might have figured out a way to place a tracking charm on him by now so they could stay right on his heels if he tried giving them the slip. A trace similar to what the Ministry uses for underage wizards to further thwart his efforts to physically distance himself from them. She was certainly clever enough to do it. That would just about be on par with the course his life was taking. Draco had jokingly called him a jammy berk, and he wasn’t wrong. Harry’s luck was completely abysmal. 

He wished he could talk with Bill tomorrow, to understand better how to cope with this affliction, to defend against it, since riding it out in seclusion wasn’t going to be an option for him, apparently. But it wasn’t exactly a conversation he could realistically have with Ron’s eldest sibling. He really didn’t know Bill all that well in the first place, and wouldn’t feel comfortable confiding in him. Besides, Harry could hardly confess to him that he was struggling to keep from jumping the bones of his two best friends, or explain their inexplicable desire to jump his, especially not when one of them was a member of Bill’s own family, and worse, that the family member wasn’t Ginny. At least it wasn’t right now. God help him if she showed up here again! The conversation he imagined in his head was completely absurd. Bill would think he’d gone insane. If he didn’t punch Harry in the mouth or curse him straight away, his advice would probably be a warning to Harry to stop drinking the damn Kool-Aid and to stay the hell away from his baby brother.

Scooting back down on his bed finally, he lay on his back and pulled the pillow from under his head, pressing the cool side over his face as if to smother himself. The idea was tempting, but he was really only trying to smother his over-stimulated senses. At least his nose was stuffed up now from weeping like a child in front of Hermione, so that helped some, he thought miserably. Maybe in the morning, he’d rub some of Madame Pomfrey’s minty smelling salve under his nose and coat the inside of his nostrils with it, too, for good measure. Perhaps that would be overpowering enough to override the scent of the two of them. Coming up with an effective way to expunge the new images they’d created tonight from his memory before they became more fodder for his fantasies would be significantly harder. He wished Hermione would have hit him with an Obliviate spell before she left, like the one she’d preformed on Draco. Nothing short of that could make him forget how she felt tonight, or mar the image in his brain of the outline of her body framed in the doorway, or rid him of the painful erection he’d had from the moment she stepped into his room.  

One of them shifted again. Harry heard the slight creak of the bed, the whisper of hair brushing against a pillow and then a soft sigh. Thinking it must be Hermione, he pictured her bare legs sliding against the sheets, the thin t-shirt she was wearing riding up to her waist as she twisted, searching for a more comfortable position. His cock throbbed at the image. 

 _Oh, God, he was in hell!_ He let out a muffled growl of frustration into the pillow and pressed it down harder over his ears.

It felt like it had been only a moment since Hermione left him when he was awakened by a burning in his scar. He didn’t realize he’d even fallen asleep, didn’t think he would be able. It hadn’t appeared as though he’d even moved until the quick stab of pain jerked him awake. He was still on his back, the pillow still over his face, but when he reached up to pull it off him, it was clear that morning had come, judging by the light in the room. He didn’t think he’d slept more than a few hours, though, if the soft snoring still coming from the next room was any indication. Feeling certain Ron would’ve been up long before him if that wasn’t the case, since the prat was the only one of them who’d gotten a good night sleep last night.

Dropping the pillow to the floor, he slid his fingers over his forehead, tracing the scar, which had already stopped stinging, going completely benign again, making Harry almost believe he’d imagined it. But he knew he hadn’t. His scar had started tingling again recently, as if it had been re-awakened from its dormancy when he returned to consciousness after that horrible incident in the bathroom, when his thoughts and memories, his ability to reason, came roaring back on the wave of that debilitating, skull-splitting headache. Bringing with it these unwanted carnal desires and reopening his connection to Tom. 

Harry felt like he could tie everything to that one moment. His mental deterioration, the growing fear, the paranoia, his feelings for Ron and Hermione, all of it linked to the breakdown he’d suffered in the shower. He had become convinced that the blackout had fundamentally weakened him somehow, that the lack of oxygen had damaged him mentally, or damaged him more than he already was. Now he believed that it had also caused his Occlumency shields to collapse. Perhaps the timing was just a coincidence, and they’d simply weakened from so long away from the physical torture that taught him finally how to build those walls, how to protect his mind from the trauma. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t his imagination that the pain in his scar had returned. It was troubling, but he certainly wasn’t fool enough to share with Ron and Hermione his concerns about these changing developments. Holy hell! The amount of monitoring he’d be subjected to if he did. He couldn’t even fathom it.

He wasn’t getting any clear visions from Voldemort yet, so he didn’t know if his defenses were down completely, and without any details, there was nothing to tell anyway. Of course, it was possible that Tom’s emotions simply weren’t strong enough to trigger Harry’s full immersion into his thoughts. He worried, nonetheless, that the pain might mean that Tom had learned of their interrogation of Draco, and that he’d broken through the memory charm placed on their former classmate. Fearing that Draco was being punished now, tortured or worse for what he’d revealed to them about the location of the Horcrux, left Harry agitated. 

Harry knew his fear was irrational, more a reflection of his guilt for putting Draco in so much danger. If Voldemort had learned that they were hunting down and destroying his Horcruxes, Harry felt certain he’d know. Tom would surely be furious. His rage at that knowledge would be strong enough for Harry to feel more than just the slight burning and tingling he was experiencing recently. Without question, the violence of his wrath, if he knew, would swarm Harry’s weakened shields, bursting through the fracturing walls to overrun his mind, to flood him with the same excruciating pain he’d felt during Lucius’ torture and murder.

Draco was a complete prick, had always been one to Harry and his friends, but he still didn’t want that death on his conscience, too, didn’t want to be the cause of it. He was responsible for more than enough already. He was also responsible for Dean and Luna being locked in that hellhole now, and his imagination punished him with images of both them and Draco being tortured because of him.

Rubbing at his eyes, which felt puffy and gritty from lack of sleep and from crying last night, he sat up on his elbows and reached down for the pillow he’d tossed to the floor to return it to the bed. He stopped before his fingers even touched it when he found himself unexpectedly sticky. Squeezing his eyes shut a moment and gritting his teeth, he tossed the blankets off himself and sat up fully. Christ! In the short time he’d actually slept, his body, his subconscious evidently had continued on where he and Hermione left off when he’d denied himself and the wolf what they wanted and had sent her away. 

He hadn’t had a wet dream since…well, for a long while. It appeared that his body was intent on getting the relief it needed with or without his help, the wolf unwilling to settle for the blade, unable to wait until morning to satisfy its hunger. He supposed he should just be grateful that he didn’t remember the dream or nightmare that had caused it. Happy that he wasn’t aware of the path his mind had taken or what his imagination had conjured for him to bring the release his body craved. 

Reaching for his glasses, he slid them on while he groped for the wand he’d stolen from Draco, intending to clean himself up, but it wasn’t on the side table. He glanced around, searching for it, thinking perhaps it fell off onto the floor, but it wasn’t anywhere. And he knew without a doubt that Hermione had nicked it on her way out of his room last night, hedging her bets in an effort to hold him to his word. 

Son of a bitch! She was an underhanded, sneaky witch! She knew he wouldn’t leave without it and would be reluctant to enter their room to retrieve it if he discovered it missing in the night. Hell, she probably had it booby-trapped, too. Spells set to go off around it if he even laid a hand on it, sirens blaring and stunners flying in all directions. Damn it!

Growling in frustration, he jumped up and yanked angrily at the sheets on his bed to strip it, piling the linens in a ball on the floor before storming down the hall to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, after depositing his bedding in the laundry, he was in the basement kitchen with Dobby, his hair still damp from a quick, flesh-blistering shower, pouring himself a cup of strong coffee and wishing he had firewiskey instead, while the elf prepared breakfast. Still feeling so pissed off, so outraged that she’d stolen Draco’s wand from him, that Dobby tip-toed around him as he scowled into his mug as if it were Hermione’s face instead. Imagining all the things he planned to say to her when he saw her today, if he didn’t just start screaming obscenities the moment he caught sight of her bushy brown hair or got a whiff of that fucking lavender-scented shampoo.

He was brought out of his brooding with the sound and smell of rashers frying, the strips sizzling as Dobby added them one by one to the hot skillet. His stomach growled. Feeling guilty for the distress he was causing Dobby and needing the distraction, Harry went to help him prepare breakfast. He’d certainly had enough experience cooking meals at the Dursley’s, having done so since he was barely big enough to see over the stovetop, that he knew he could be of assistance. 

Although Dobby was stunned initially when Harry first stepped into the kitchen, the little elf didn’t insist on doing it himself or try to shoo him away. He allowed Harry to take over the rashers while he made porridge. They worked pretty well as a team, and Dobby relaxed when he realized that Harry actually knew his way around a stove and could be trusted not to make a mess of things. Soon, Harry felt that the pork in the pan was mirroring his mood or mocking it, and the idea amused him. They crackled merrily when left alone, but hissed furiously when disturbed. They grew hostile at his efforts to cook the fatty strips evenly, as Harry automatically strived for the perfection that had been required to pass his aunt’s inspection.

The black cloud hanging over him was growing considerably lighter as he worked, and he didn’t even get irritated when he got popped on the hand by the scalding grease in retaliation, when the angry rashers needed turning. He simply got his revenge by nibbling on one of their fallen comrades which he’d already defeated, pulled from the battle field and left to cool on a plate. It had been a game played as a lonely child growing up isolated at the Dursley’s in an effort to make his chores somehow fun. The familiarity of finding himself at the stove, and possibly because of his mood when he began, caused him to revert back to that childhood pastime now.

Selecting a perfectly cooked piece of bacon, Harry offered it wordlessly to Dobby, who grinned up at him and plucked it from his fingers while standing on an ancient looking stool so he’d be tall enough to work at the stove. They worked together, side by side in companionable silence, with Dobby occasionally humming happily as he stirred the bubbling porridge. 

The elf made it for Harry several times a week now as he’d become a bit of an aficionado after that first bowl, his first solid meal that had tasted so good to his starving taste buds and filled his shrunken stomach with warmth. Maybe it was just the way Dobby prepared it, but it always seemed to taste just as wonderful to him now when he served it. Harry savored every spoonful, each mouthful a gift. His appetite seemed never to be satiated anymore and he ate his meals with the same kind of enthusiasm as Ron these days. 

Under Dobby’s care, Harry’s stomach was always full, and he was swiftly regaining the weight he’d lost. His clothes were starting to fit him again instead of looking like his wardrobe had been mistakenly swapped for Dudley’s. Just having regular meals helped. Even before their imprisonment at the Malfoy’s, their meals were often sparse and sometimes nonexistent. They’d all lost weight during these months of endless running. It made him feel like he’d become the fox for Tom’s hunt, going to ground here at Grimmauld place, taking refuge in this familiar den until the Death Eaters caught their scent once more and flushed them out for their master to resume the chase. But Tom’s hounds hadn’t caught up to him. Not yet, not today, and so this morning he was refueling, taking advantage of the interlude to build on the strength and health Madame Pomfrey and Dobby had helped him to regain while he had the chance, before the race was on again. 

He was working steadily through his heaping bowl of porridge and his second cup of coffee. His spoils of war: a plate stacked full of vanquished rashers with buttered toast and jam, sat waiting beside a glass of cold pumpkin juice when he was finally joined at the table by Ron.

Harry knew almost as soon as he’d woken up. Not because his nose was that sensitive, but because he could hear his feet thundering on the stairs from two floors away. Ron came into view a moment later, skidding around the doorway, looking around wildly as if he’d been chased out of his bed by an ax-wielding murderer. He did a double-take at finding Harry sitting there having breakfast, surprised, perhaps, to find him still here at all. Staggering into the room, he let out an exhausted breath, clutched at his chest, and then sagged against the wall in relief. 

It hadn’t occurred to Harry what Ron or Hermione would think at finding his room empty, the bed stripped and him nowhere in sight. It didn’t make him feel bad, though. He was still angry with both of them. It was their own guilty consciences that had them so terrified of his escape. They were the ones driving his desire to flee. It served them right to feel terrified for a change, and he was still planning to give Hermione a piece of his mind when she finally made an appearance this morning, but right now, he’d settle for Ron.

He’d only glanced at Ron before returning to his porridge so he was taken off guard when Ron plopped down in the chair across from him and pulled Harry’s plate across the table towards himself without a word. Dropping his spoon, outraged, Harry tried to pull the plate back, but the git had already stolen a piece of his toast.

“Get your own,” he growled.

“You’ve got plenty.”

“And there’s plenty more in the kitchen, so get your own.”

“Fine,” Ron replied, though he didn’t replace the stolen toast or leave to fetch his own breakfast. He stared at Harry instead, looking put out that he still seemed angry, as if nothing had happened between them yesterday that would warrant Harry’s continued hostility. “You’re in a foul mood aren’t you? And you look like shite, too. Your eyes are all bloodshot.”

“Well, you should tell your girlfriend to stop wandering into my room at night and into my bed and maybe I’d get a good night’s sleep then. I expect we’re both pretty tired this morning.”

“What?” Ron choked. Half strangling on the bit of toast he’d just bitten off, his eyes went round with shock, looking totally stunned at Harry’s pronouncement.

Scooting his chair back from the table, Harry made to leave after lobbing that grenade, even though he’d not finished his breakfast, but Ron slapped a hand over his, grasping Harry by the wrist to prevent his escape. It sent a thrill of fear and anticipation through him, the touch radiating all the way up his arm. He was playing with fire here, feeling reckless. 

Maybe it was ill advised to imply to your best mate that you’d shagged his girlfriend last night, suicidal even, but he was still angry at them both for yesterday, still afraid for how much stronger his attraction was going to be today, so he’d led with a preemptive strike. If it resulted in a bloody beat down from Ron, he could live with that. He might actually even be courting it, if he were being honest.

“Wait a minute. What do you mean?” Ron spluttered, still reeling from Harry’s words.

“Jealous?” Harry asked snidely struggling to pull his wrist free, though Ron held on to him easily, in part because he was trying to pry Ron’s fingers loose with his bad hand, which was still much weaker that the other. “I knew you would be. I thought that was what you wanted, but you see it now, don’t you? You understand why this idea the two of you have can never work. There would always be too much jealousy. We’ll start to fear and mistrust each other, one of us always feeling like a gooseberry in the relationship, turning us against one other.”

“What the? No… Just hold up, damn it! Where the hell is this coming from?” Ron growled gripping him harder.

“Don’t act like you’re fine with it,” Harry pressed on, ignoring that he was losing feeling in his hand, not giving Ron a chance to catch up, to make sense of the flurry of words and accusations Harry was battering him with. “I was there too, remember? I saw what that bit of Riddle in Slytherin’s locket showed you before you finally stabbed it. I saw your fear of that coming true.”

“All right. That’s it! You’re just trying to provoke me!” Ron shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Harry with the hand still clutching his stolen toast, not releasing the other from around Harry’s wrist. He spoke loudly to finally interrupt Harry’s tirade. “You slung that comment out there to get back at me for being such an arse to you yesterday. You’re trying to get a reaction out of me, and then use it against me as evidence, or something, for whatever you’re accusing me of,” Ron argued. “I’ll admit that I didn’t know about last night, but if Hermione was in your room, it was in an attempt to do what I failed to do in the foyer. To make you stay, to make you see reason.” 

He released Harry’s wrist finally, and Harry massaged the feeling back into it while glaring at Ron.

“I won’t lie. I would’ve preferred to have been there, too," Ron continued more quietly, once he was sure Harry wasn’t going to attempt to leave again. "Of course I don’t want to be left out, but I trust you, Harry, and I trust her.”

Harry scoffed.

Ron leaned back in his chair then, taking another bite of Harry’s toast, studying him before speaking again. “I’m not the same person I was when I destroyed that locket, Harry. Things are different now. We’re not the same as we were before, none of us. Malfoy got that part right. We didn’t come out of that dungeon the same as we went in.” 

“Right. And you want me to believe that you came out not as the jealous, insecure Ron that went in, but a Ron who’s so self-assured, so confident now, that he’s just fine with finding out the girl he loves was in someone else’s bed last night?”

“Listen, I don’t know what happened last night, but I’m all for what went on between you two if it led to you to still be sitting here this morning. Honestly. If it means you’re not leaving, I’ll throw a damn party in celebration. The only thing I’m pissed about is that she didn’t at least wake me up to invite me along. I should go up and thank her, ask her to teach me the techniques she used to persuade you, or beg her to demonstrate them for me. She’s shown me a few already, but I’m guessing I was a lot less difficult to convince. Hell, I’m way too easy. It would’ve been nice to have seen her have to work at it a bit.” 

Well shit! That backfired. It was Harry’s turn now to look stunned as he gaped at Ron. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting from him at all, and he didn’t know what to say now, how to counter that. He was hoping for a fight, planning to work Ron into a jealous rage, but all he’d done was let Ron fill his mind with titillating images of what he thought they’d done together last night and of what Ron and Hermione got up to in the dark. He’d let the momentum swing to Ron’s favor, the wind no longer at his back, the element of surprise gone. Ron had him rocked back on his heels now with his unexpected counterattack.

“Her technique was to assault me, force me to make promises to her that I wouldn’t leave just to get her out of my room, and then steal my wand to make sure I stayed,” Harry admitted grudgingly, dropping the ruse finally that they’d had some sort of tryst on his bed, and then, hoping to at least leave Ron off balance, he added, “There was a fair bit of crying and freaking out, as well, mostly on my part.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up at Harry’s unexpected candor. “Damn… Well, that’s a bit less exciting than I’d imagined, but it was still effective I guess.”

He snorted in amusement, but Harry wasn’t finding much of this funny. He didn’t like feeling like his back was against the ropes in this fight. He hadn’t landed a single solid blow to Ron. He was as completely ineffective as he’d been against him yesterday in the foyer. At least he still had the ability to speak right now. Ron wasn’t pressing him against the wall, leaning into him so their chests were almost touching or blowing angry puffs of hot breath in his ear and on his neck. The hairs on his arms stood up now at the memory.

“No wonder you’re so pissy. Maybe I should be glad I didn’t watch. If it makes you feel any better, though, I cried and freaked out some, too, the first time she persuaded me.”

“Shut up! Tonight, I’m just going to murder you both in your sleep and be done with it,” Harry warned. 

 _Yeah, that was a real knockout punch right there_ , he thought ruefully. God, he was pathetic. He couldn’t even spar verbally with Ron today. Now he was picturing their first time together, and even though he was trying to imagine Ron sobbing through it, it was still making him horny as hell. If he was losing to Ron this badly, Hermione was going to wipe the floor with him when he finally confronted her later. 

 “Bring it, bad boy,” Ron replied with a waggle of his eyebrows and another smirk. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“You suck!” Completely giving up, apparently, Harry slouched down in his chair, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

“Like I care.” 

What Harry needed, he decided, glowering at Ron, was a fucking nap, preferably for a couple of days locked in a sensory deprivation tank. Remus said his reasoning would be dulled near the full moon, but this was more like nonexistent. Surely lack of sleep was playing a part in this humiliating defeat. 

Ron took another bite of toast, still smirking at him. Harry had never really noticed before, the fullness of Ron’s lips as he watched him chewing, finishing off the toast and then licking his sticky fingers while Harry continued to glower at him. He wondered if Ron’s tongue would taste like jam now, the idea making his pulse react which made him even more irritable at the stupid prat sitting across from him, still in his pajama bottoms, shirtless, with his hair mussed from sleep. It was a dirty, underhanded tactic, hardly a fair fight in the first place. How was he supposed to have it out with him when Ron was half dressed and blatantly flirting with him?

Reaching across the table then, Ron stole Harry’s untouched pumpkin juice and took a long swallow to wash down the toast before Harry could even react at having more of his breakfast pilfered. He set the glass down, and a bead of sweat slid down the side onto the table to form a ring at the base. A third of the juice he’d been looking forward to was now gone. Ron was running his thumb around the rim when Harry, scowling, sat up suddenly, and reached out a hand. Utterly annoyed now, he quirked two fingers in a summoning motion, and the glass, slick with condensation, slid swiftly out of Ron’s grip, back across the table and into Harry’s hand. Both of them stared at it in surprise.

“Wicked! Do that again,” Ron exclaimed in childlike wonder, his face splitting into a wide grin.

Harry hadn’t found it at all fascinating, however, more like frightening, and his mouth hung open in shock. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, astounded. “It was an accident.”

“Here, have another go, Harry,” Ron urged enthusiastically, dragging the glass back across the table for a second attempt, but Harry didn’t want to try again.

“No. I don’t know how,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to.”

He felt weird, frightened at the wandless magic, unnerved at how easily it had come out of him. He hadn’t had to try, to even think about what he was doing. He’d just summoned it in frustration, the magic coming from him without him being furious or terrified as it had all the times before. But he was only mildly irritated at Ron. It shouldn’t have been enough to trigger any accidental magic. What did it mean if his magic was coming out of him like that? What did it say about his mental state? How much of a danger was he truly becoming?

“Why not?” Ron asked, sounding disappointed that Harry didn’t want to perform the trick again.

“Because, you idiot! What if I shoot fucking flames out next? Are you really stupid enough to sit across from me, directly in the line of fire and ask me to try again? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ron sobered up quickly, his enthusiasm sliding off his face, looking shocked at Harry’s outrage, or his own ignorance. “Yeah, all right. I hadn’t thought of that. It just seemed harmless. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry,” he apologized.

Harry reached across the table for the glass again with shaking hands and drained it quickly, gulping it down before replacing it on the table and then dropping back into his chair while Ron watched him.

God. He was deteriorating so quickly that soon they wouldn’t be able to take him out in public at all without drugging him and turning him into a drooling mess, fearing that he’d become hysterical and make a scene if they didn’t, afraid of his magic shooting out of him uncontrollably. Was that what he was becoming? Was that his future? Sighing heavily, he squeezed his eyes closed, pushed his glasses up, and rubbed the bridge of his nose and then his tired eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Harry looked up at him, letting his glasses fall back onto his nose. “I’m just corking, Ron. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m sorry, all right? I just thought it was a neat bit of magic. It could come in useful you know? I think you should try and practice with it.”

“No.”

“Fine… damn, you’re an arse today!”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Actually, yeah,” Ron replied, looking startled, as if he’d totally forgotten the reconnaissance mission to Gringotts he’d volunteered for this morning. “I need to jump in the shower, or I’ll be late.” He slid his hand slowly across the table towards Harry’s plate again as he stood, and he swiped a piece of bacon while Harry scowled at him. “What? I’m running late. The cloak won’t do me much good if my stomach is growling so bad they can hear me coming.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to eat,” he argued.

Ron merely shrugged, cramming the entire rasher in his mouth as he walked away. Pausing at the door, he swallowed and turned back to Harry, looking suddenly serious as he braced his hand against the doorjamb. “Listen, Harry. I really am sorry about how I acted yesterday. I know I handled it all wrong, but I was scared. It won’t happen again, okay? I promise.” 

That was both of them making promises now that they wouldn’t or couldn’t keep, Harry thought, watching Ron standing in the doorway like Hermione had been last night. He stared at the cinnamon colored freckles, which started at Ron’s shoulders and multiplied on their way down his arms, as if he’d been standing too near Seamus when some baking experiment he was conducting went invariably awry, pelting him with the spice when the whole thing blew up in Seamus’ face. Harry imagined them as the source of Ron’s inexplicable scent, as if the aroma emanated from those tiny spots of pigment dotting his body.

Harry had seen Ron wearing less, much less, hundreds of times before and not given it a second thought. Watching the outline of Ron’s ribs appear and disappear against his pale skin with each intake of breath, Harry’s wished he could be as unaffected by the sight of him now.

“Please don’t take Malfoy’s bait. Don’t go after Luna and Dean, Harry, please.”

Harry blinked, his eyes jumping back to Ron’s face from where they had been charting the path of the slight curve of his spine to the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms. But he just stared mutely at Ron, unable to reassure him and unwilling to lie.

“Talk to me about this,” Ron pleaded, gripping the doorframe when Harry remained silent.

“I can’t leave them there to rot, Ron,” he finally admitted. “I can’t leave them there with her.”

“We can’t save everyone, mate. I hate that they’re in that fucking place, too, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“Is that what you think the Order said about us? Is that the vote you would have cast if it was you or Hermione or me they were deciding was worth saving or not? Have you forgotten what it felt like in there, how desolate we felt when our hope of rescue faded? When we thought we’d been abandoned, left to die?” he asked. “I’m not leaving them to that, Ron. I can’t.”

Ron turned fully to face him. Looking pale, he leaned against the wall, blowing out a breath as if Harry had knocked the wind out of him. “No. There’s no way I’d leave either of you there.  Never. But we have a job to do that can end this thing once and for all,” Ron argued. “I understand how you feel, but going after Dean and Luna won’t get us closer to that Horcrux, closer to finishing this so that we can all be free. It’s exactly what she wants you to do. It’s a trap you’re planning on just walking right into. You have to know that.”

“I do, but it doesn’t matter.”

“You can’t even say her name. How do you think you’re going to be able to face her?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

“Harry, look, if we can’t talk you out of it, at least let us come with you. Don’t go by yourself.”

“You don’t understand, okay? This isn’t a committee decision. I have to go alone. I can’t take you two. I’m not leading you back there. I don’t think I can bear us all being in that place again.”

“We’ll follow. You know we will,” Ron said defiantly. “Hermione and I will walk straight up to the gates of Malfoy Manor with bells on, offering ourselves up to that bitch and her master like lambs for the slaughter.”

“God damn it! Don’t do that. You’re blackmailing me!”

“Hell yes I am! And I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it, either. You need to understand what we’re willing to risk to stop you. If you go, you’re forcing my hand, taking my choice, too, and it’ll get us all killed.”

“Fuck!” He glared at Ron, curling his hands into fists to stop them shaking at the image of Ron and Hermione back in Bellatrix’s clutches, chained to the wall again awaiting their execution. Oh, God! And Ron would do it, Hermione, too. Harry knew it. The threat was real. Ron meant every word he’d said. 

“Are you going to be here when I get back?” Ron asked, his forehead creased with worry.

“Yes,” Harry growled reluctantly. “But you’re a complete bastard.”

“I know,” Ron agreed, grinning at Harry in a relieved sort of way. “You are, too, but I’m stuck to you like glue now, and no one is going to pry me off. Even you can’t shake me loose, tosspot, so get used to it.”

Christ, he was a prick. 

“I really hate you today,” he muttered.

“And I’m just heartbroken about that, I can tell you. I’ll just have to get over it, I guess. Maybe Hermione will comfort me.”

Ron stared at him a second longer and then winked. Turning again, he stepped into the hallway and out of sight. He was definitely running late to make it to the bank now when it opened.

“Your method of persuasion is even shittier than Hermione’s,” Harry growled at Ron’s retreating footsteps.

“Hmm, that’s not the way I’m remembering it from the other morning on Sirius’ bed,” Ron shouted back down the hallway. “I can be very persuasive if you’ll give me the chance.”

He heard Ron bounding back up the stairs, and Harry dropped his head onto the table. He needed to lock himself in the bathroom once Ron left for the bank, before he had to face Hermione or they went to Bill’s. He needed some relief before facing anymore of what this day had in store for him.

~ . ~


	29. At the Seashore

Ron appeared in front of Florean Fortescue’s old Ice Cream Parlor, figuring it to be as safe a place as any to Apparate into Diagon Alley now that the store was boarded up. He wasn’t likely to land right on top of some poor soul doing their shopping here. It had stopped serving patrons ice cream over a year ago when its owner went missing and was now presumed dead. He need not have worried. Ron could have Apparated almost anywhere in Diagon Alley and not disturbed anyone. The place was practically empty. Counting on one hand the number of wizards he saw in the streets, Ron noticed they all had their heads down, going quickly about their business, not lingering to chat. In fact, they appeared to be trying to not be noticed at all. 

Things had certainly changed, he thought sadly as he stood stock still under the invisibility cloak, gripping his wand tightly. He waited, looking around cautiously to see if anyone had heard the telltale pop of Apparition and might now be attempting to locate the source. Straining his ears, he listened for the sound of their approach while his eyes travelled over the familiar shops, inside store windows, and into the shadowy places between the buildings. Ron squinted, his eyes searching the dark spaces around him, fearful of what or who they might be concealing. Glancing up warily, he watched swollen storm clouds roll overhead against a mournful, iron-grey sky. The wind moaned a lament, its cold breath swirling around him, penetrating through the layers of fabric to whisper warnings of this unfriendly place into his ears and against his skin.

Diagon Alley was no longer the popular wizarding destination it had been in the days before You Know Who’s return. Ron remembered looking forward to the family’s annual shopping trips before starting term. He’d spent many happy hours here, ogling the latest wares in Quality Quidditch Supplies or mysterious items that caught his fancy in one of the vendors’ carts lining the alley. He’d sat dozens of times in front of Fortescue’s place, having an ice cream with his friends while Hogwarts classmates stopped by to discuss the perennial question of who would be their new DADA professor. Now he stood alone on an almost deserted street.

Worst of all was the twin’s joke shop, which had felt the last bastion of hope, like a beacon of light against the encroaching darkness on their last visit. But it, too, had finally succumbed. Taking with it what remained of the color from this place. Now there was litter in the streets and ragged people sleeping huddled in doorways. No longer were there happy families enjoying an afternoon outing on a warm summer’s day, no cheerful Hogwarts students off to buy their first wand or their new school books. 

He wished like hell for the simple worries of those years, when his biggest concern was running into Draco Malfoy and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, in the corner of some empty shop or down a deserted side street. Fearing only pain and humiliation at the hands of his Slytherin tormentors, Ron had been incapable of understanding the true evil of which people were capable.  He’d merely been afraid back then of getting hexed or having his nose bloodied, of being teased for being poor and ridiculed about his hand-me-downs. The idea of anything worse, of anything more sinister truly happening to him, had been beyond his comprehension.

To only be that naïve again, to have the same feeling of invulnerability that came with youth before he’d come face to face with the real brutality of the world, before he’d learned how quickly death could come for him or someone he loved from one misstep, one tiny mistake or relaxing of his guard. Ron couldn’t even remember what it felt like not to live with the constant weight of fear on his chest anymore. Fear for himself, but even more so for Hermione and Harry or for his family. The terror was so omnipresent at times that he felt as if he were suffocating under its tremendous pressure. God, he felt old right now, like he’d been on this planet a hundred years instead of the mere eighteen he’d been lucky enough to survive.

Shivering against the whipping wind, he tucked the cloak around himself, trying to shake off the pall of fear and despair that clung stubbornly to him because of the depressed thoughts which had gripped him so unexpectedly at the sight of this place. 

Ron was careful to ensure he was completely covered before making his way slowly towards Gringotts so that his footsteps wouldn’t echo on the nearly deserted cobbled street, fearing the sound might be carried to unfriendly ears. Still, he needed to hurry to the bank before the rain that was threatening began to fall. He’d never really gotten the hang of that _Impervious_ spell, and the cloak wouldn’t hide him well if it were soaking wet. It was too much to hope that the goblins wouldn’t notice a giant puddle being streaked across their marble floors while he tried to have a look around the bank’s interior.

As he walked, he saw Harry’s face plastered in every shop window he passed. Dozens of pairs of those captivating eyes blinked slowly at him from behind the wire frames of his glasses. The flash from the photographer’s camera reflected briefly off the lenses, making Harry’s pupils contract at the sudden blinding light. _Undesirable Number One_ was printed in large letters under each black and white photograph. It was a face that had lost its own youthful innocence long ago to the ravages of this war; indeed, before most believed or would admit it had even started. The weary image that stared out at him seemed lost, in shock. The picture was taken at the Ministry right after Sirius had been murdered, after their first disastrous encounter with Bellatrix. Ron supposed they didn’t have a more recent one they could use for the posters because Harry had taken great pains to steer clear of reporters anytime he’d had to make a public appearance, most recently, when giving testimony against Snape last summer at the Ministry. His friend had changed a lot since that image was taken, and not just physically. Yet he was the same, too, still totally recognizable; still undeniably _The Boy Who Lived_.

The snowy white building finally came into view, towering majestically over Ron as he approached, but he wasn’t admiring its beauty today. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he gripped his wand and carefully studied the three men standing at the front entrance. There was a bored looking wizard on either side of the great bronze doors. Another man stood between them, carrying a large stack of rolled parchments. As he drew closer, Ron could see that the first two men were both holding long thin metal instruments which he immediately recognized as Probity Probes, having become intimately familiar with them at Hogwarts at the hands of an overenthusiastic Filch, the Caretaker. They were waving the golden rods over the third man, who was arguing, though Ron wasn’t close enough to make out the words. He was clearly put out, however, protesting at having his business with the bank delayed, for being held up and searched so thoroughly.

Ron mouthed a stream of silent curses. Even under the cloak, he wouldn’t be able to get past the guards without being detected, not with those secrecy sensors. He ventured as close as he dared, close enough to see the silver inner doors and the inscription upon them, but not the lobby beyond. 

Shit!  It was going to be hard as hell to get into Bellatrix’s vault if they couldn’t even make it past the front doors. What the hell was he going to do? If he got caught, it would be a catastrophe. He was completely on his own here and now seriously second-guessing that brilliant strategy. None of them had anticipated this obstacle.

The guards had finally tired of harassing the bank patron, who was still giving them a piece of his mind as he adjusted the load in his arms. He pushed past them and disappeared through the doors. The guards smirked at his retreating back and then went back to looking bored again while they awaited their next victim. Discouraged, Ron stood there, trying to come up with a solution before finally deciding to walk the perimeter of the building in the hope of finding another entrance or weak spot. He was out of luck, however. He found nothing. The only way in or out of the bank, it appeared, was through those guards and the front doors. Frustrated, he finally gave up and Disapparated back to Grimmauld Place to deliver the disappointing news.

It had been less than an hour since he left when he appeared again in the foyer. Yanking the invisibility cloak off angrily and balling it under his arm, Ron marched upstairs. He gave a startled yelp of surprise when he nearly smashed heads with Harry who’d hurtled headlong into the hall from the bathroom as he was stalking past. Ron grabbed him by the elbows to keep them both from landing on their backsides. As if Ron’s touch burned, Harry jerked out of his grip almost immediately and staggered backwards, his eyes round with fear or surprise.

“Whoa… slow down, Harry! Where are you headed so fast?”

Flustered, Harry righted himself before looking Ron quickly up and down. “I heard something, and I was just coming… What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Why are you back already? What happened?” Crossing his arms at his chest, as if he were an angry father catching his wayward teen out past curfew, Harry waited impatiently for answers.

“It’s a no-go,” Ron replied, his shoulders slumping with the admission of his defeat as he turned. “Couldn’t even get past the front doors.” 

“What? Why not?” Harry asked, following Ron as he headed for the drawing room. 

Tossing the cloak into the nearest chair, Ron threw himself onto the couch as he explained the situation at the bank.

“Damn it. We’re going to have to find a way around that, obviously. We have to be able to get a look inside the bank, Ron.”

“Yeah, I know. A Confundus charm, maybe?” Ron suggested. “Or some kind of diversion? I don’t know. Maybe we can break in at night if they’re off duty, unless you’re thinking we should just bypass them altogether and tunnel our way into the vaults, or something.” Smirking, he glanced up at Harry for his response. “Hey, you’re bleeding,” he blurted instead. Getting suddenly to his feet again, he started back towards Harry.

“What?” Harry asked, startled. He immediately looked down at his arm where blood was being wicked into the cotton fibers of his shirt, causing a small red stain to bloom in the gathered fabric at the bend of his elbow. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he began dismissively, folding his arms again and covering the spot with his hand. “I scratched myself earlier. It must have just started up bleeding again when you grabbed me.” He took a step backwards when Ron reached out for his arm to examine it.

“How did you scratch yourself there?”

“I don’t know, I just did,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s no big deal. It’s just a stupid scratch, like I said.” Stepping past Ron, who was still standing in front of him with his arm outstretched, Harry took a seat in one of the chairs. “So, these guards,” he continued, steering them back on topic and away from further discussion about the injury to his arm, “were they Death Eaters?”

“I… I don’t know,” Ron answered, surprised by the question, the thought having never occurred to him. He felt suddenly stupid for not paying close enough attention to them, for not doing his job thoroughly enough. “I didn’t recognize them if they were.” Pausing, he tried to bring them into clearer focus in his mind, to remember the details of their faces as he slowly sank back onto the couch. “They certainly weren’t any of the ones who’d been at the Malfoy’s, Harry, or I promise you, they’d be dead right now.”

Searching his eyes, Harry absorbed his pronouncement a moment before nodding his head once in silent acknowledgement. “Well, they might still be Death Eaters, or Ministry workers, which are pretty much the same thing, or they could just be a couple of bank wizards. Whoever they are, we’ll have to draw them away somehow. Maybe we could use a Decoy Detonator or something. I suppose it’s too much to hope that they’d take their lunch together and leave their posts for an hour or so while we have a look around.”

“Not likely, mate.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m guessing security is probably even tighter at night, so going then isn’t really an option either. I guess we could try a Confundus charm on them,” Harry said thoughtfully, chewing on his thumb nail as he spoke. One leg bobbed up and down energetically while he considered Ron’s suggestions, working his way through the more reasoned ideas and weighing their options. “We should check with Fred and George first, though, and see if Gringotts might have purchased any of their shield cloaks. The last thing we want is to have a spell rebound back at us unexpectedly and give the game away.”  

“Good idea. I hadn’t thought of that. What’s betting they did? It’d be just like that darkness powder they sold to Malfoy that came back to bite us in the arse. I still haven’t forgiven them for that. The stupid gits,” Ron said, scowling. Then he sat up, pointing at Harry. “Actually, you know, Bill might know something about that. We’ll ask him first. When do you want—”

He broke off.  Harry’s face had already gone hard, his body going still a moment before Ron heard the fearful sounds and frantic footfalls of Hermione coming down the hall. He turned towards the doorway in time to catch her stumbling around the corner into the room. She drew up short at seeing them sitting there together, her eyes brimming with tears. 

“Oh,” she gasped; the sound somewhere between relief and surprise. 

Her hair was a wild mess, her face still lined from sleep as Ron watched the color rising in her cheeks. Hermione must have leapt out of bed as soon as she woke up, and finding Harry’s room vacant, had gone on a frantic search of the house to locate him just as Ron had done earlier.  Clutching a wand at her side as if she meant to stun Harry if she’d spotted him fleeing, she stood immobile in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with the hem of the t-shirt she’d slept in. Apparently unable to decide what to do now that she’d unexpectedly found him alive and well and sitting in the drawing room, she simply stared at Harry.

“Give me back my wand, Witch,” Harry growled in greeting. 

Flinching at the anger in his voice, Hermione bit down on her lip while Ron’s eyes went wide. Stunned by the abrupt change in Harry’s demeanor, at the renewed hostility in his voice and his gaze, he sat frozen himself, caught off guard. He’d been met with that same attitude this morning so he really shouldn’t have been surprised. But Harry had thawed since then, relaxing some at least as they discussed Gringotts so it felt like his anger had just erupted out of nowhere. 

They’d been having a completely normal conversation, just now, like hundreds they’d had before things had gone sideways between them. Still in the midst of relative calm after their morning blow up, Ron had felt relaxed, optimistic even that they were on the verge of possibly reconciling. Harry, too, had looked fairly at ease as they sat talking. There was no real tension between them, sexual or otherwise, until Hermione’s appearance shattered the all’s-well-again illusion Ron had been happily enjoying. The suddenness of Harry’s temper left Ron unsure what to do.

Harry and Hermione stared unblinkingly at one other, Harry with murder in his eyes and Hermione’s still watery and full of regret. Then, without a word, she stepped forward, unwisely Ron thought, into what he would have told here was enemy territory if she’d bothered to ask. But he may as well have not even been in the room as they focused exclusively on one another and ignored his presence entirely. That was fine. He was planning on being Switzerland over here anyway. There was no way he was messing up the tentative truce he’d just established with Harry. She could handle herself, especially in a war of words, which was the most he hoped this would come to.

Walking slowly, with as much dignity as she could, Hermione moved towards Harry whose gaze faltered at her approach, as if it suddenly dawned on him how formidable she truly was. Leaning back in his chair slightly when she stopped directly in front of him, he appeared nervous now despite his previous bravado, worried perhaps, she might slap him stupid again if he uttered another angry word. The evidence of her previous attack still showed on his face, though it had faded considerably in the days since Ron had started all this chaos between them. What was left was only barely noticeable today, just a yellowish brown shading under his eye along the cheekbone. Still, Ron was certain that the sting of her palm wasn’t something Harry was likely to forget, even after the visible reminder was gone.

As if mindful of being perceived as a threat, Hermione carefully held out Harry’s wand to him. She didn’t simply hand it over handle first, however, since that would have pointed the business end at her. The girl wasn’t stupid. Harry was pissed, and she wasn’t planning to deliver the weapon and give him a head start on hexing her if that was his intent. Instead, she opened her hand where it lay in her palm and presented it for him to retrieve.

Harry looked up at her suspiciously as though afraid she might try and snatch it away again if he attempted to reach for it. He, too, moved with slow deliberation to take it from her hand without making contact with her skin. The scene was completely bizarre to watch. It was as if both of them thought the other was one of Hagrid’s vicious pets. Like facing a Blast Ended Skrewt, fearing that any sudden movement might cause the other to attack. 

Ron felt like he’d been abruptly thrown back several weeks in time as he watched the slow motion scene being played out in front of him. He was reminded of watching Hermione’s disastrous attempt to return Harry’s glasses to him after that first bath and then later on the couch when she’d cautiously removed them again so he could sleep. 

What the hell could she have done to return Harry to that fearful state? What really happened last night after he’d fallen asleep? Ron seriously needed Hermione’s side of the story.

In his anger this morning, Harry had first implied that that the two of them had been intimate. Then he switched tactics and accused her of all out assaulting him. Ron had been sure Harry was blowing it out of proportion, trying to provoke a fight with him, and he’d refused to take the bait. But he obviously hadn’t understood the severity of what went on or the rift it had caused. Whatever happened had clearly left a profound mark on them both. 

God, it looked like they were really fucking things up with Harry. They needed to reverse this, Ron realized, and fast.

“I know I shouldn’t have taken it. I knew you’d be angry with me, but I had to, Harry. After what happened… I just had to. You were in no fit state to leave, and I needed to make sure you wouldn’t.”

“And whose fault was that? Who put me in that state? I sure as hell didn’t want you there. I begged you to leave, but you wouldn’t. You never should have come,” Harry snarled.

Hermione nodded her head in agreement. She looked miserable. “I know.”

“Why did you have to do that? Why couldn’t you just let me be? You made everything worse.”

“You don’t know how sorry I am for what happened.”

“Yeah, sure you are. You’re sorry, but then you thought you’d just nick my wand as insurance? Worried I might’ve seen through your damn lies?” Harry glared at her, his jaw clenching. Anger had turned his face red, and his nostrils flared. 

She was shaking her head in denial, her hands held out in a supplicating gesture. “I don’t know how to make you believe me, Harry. I was afraid. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Why didn’t you just drug me then, huh? You’re good at that. Or you could’ve talked Dobby into doing it for you again, I’m sure, had him slip it into my tea at dinner or something to keep me here. Hell, we all would have slept better, and as a bonus, I might not have even realized anything was up,” Harry suggested snidely, his voice saturated with sarcasm. “It would have saved you a lot of trips to my room last night if you had. I think I would’ve preferred that. Just file that away somewhere in that devious brain of yours for future reference the next time you plan to hold me hostage in my own house!”

“He wouldn’t have done it, even if it had occurred to me to ask. Which it didn’t,” she replied defensively. “Besides, it wouldn’t stop you forever.” Hermione was fighting back a little for the first time as she stood her ground against Harry’s continued verbal assault. “I meant to try and talk you out of leaving us, but I never planned to hold you hostage. I don’t want to keep you here against your will. I don’t want this to become another prison for you, Harry.” She was shaking all over now as she tried desperately to plead her case. “I want you to want to stay with us, but please understand. I couldn’t let you leave last night. Not like that.” 

Hermione had finally lost the battle against the tears, and they began streaming unchecked down her face. For his part, Ron sat mutely on the couch, a silent spectator to the terrible fallout. He wanted to say something, to defend her, to diffuse this, but he had no words. His voice had apparently packed its bags and taken the Knight Bus out of town.

He realized now what Hermione felt like these last few days with the two of them having a go at each other every few hours, and it sucked. He and Harry had been at each other’s throats recently, but that hadn’t really bothered Ron. They’d been like that plenty of times before. The relationship between Harry and Hermione had been strong, however, until now. And that made Ron truly worried for the first time. Maybe their friendship really was crumbling as Hermione feared. If so, he, Ron, was to blame.

“Whatever the consequences I knew I’d be facing today, Harry, I couldn’t let it be all my fault. Your… your anger I can endure, but knowing I was the person that drove you away? I could never have lived with that.”  Her voice was wavering, and she took a deep breath, holding it, trying to get control of herself before all out sobbing threatened to reduce her to incoherent blubbering. “Maybe after last night the damage is already irrevocable, but despite what it appears, I’m trying to repair things between us. That was all I was ever trying to do last night. I hope you can forgive me.” She wiped at her eyes and then turned away from him without waiting for his reply. Head bowed, she headed back out of the room. “I’m going to get dressed,” she mumbled to Ron as she passed, acknowledging him for the first time. Then she left, leaving Harry and him to stare after her.

A heavy silence hung in the air between them in the wake of her departure.  Ron scratched nervously at the back of his neck before clearing his throat. “You were a bit harsh, don’t you think? She said she was sorry.”

“Bullshit! She’s just sorry she got caught,” Harry snapped back. “I bet she’d planned to replace the wand this morning before I woke up, hoping I’d be none the wiser.”

“Harry, that’s not really fair—”

“I think I’m going back to bed,” Harry announced, interrupting Ron and getting wearily to his feet. The anger in his face had dissolved, and he looked miserable now, too, as miserable as Hermione had been, as miserable as Ron felt. “I got hardly any sleep last night. Maybe we can go to Bill’s after lunch or something.”

“Yeah, okay. Look, are you all right?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded and then sighed. “Yeah, I’m just tired and making a mess of things, as usual. This day started out like shite, and it keeps getting worse. I’m making it worse. Maybe if I can get some rest and start over again, I’ll be less of an arsehole.”

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as if a headache was forming between his eyes, and Ron resisted the urge to ask once more if he was feeling all right. He did look exhausted, and he was all over the place this morning, going from normal to irate in the span between heartbeats and then collapsing into regret as soon as Hermione had left. Ron sincerely hoped a nap would help him relax. Harry was wound up tight, and his little display of wandless magic this morning reminded Ron of how dangerous that could be.

“I was a bit mental last night. I don’t blame her for wanting to stop me doing something stupid. You’re both trying to control me, though, trying to protect me, like I’m a child or something. It’s driving me mad. I need to be able to trust you and her, Ron. I need you to trust me.”

“It’s not that we don’t trust you, or think you’re a child,” Ron argued. “We’re just trying to help you.”

“I know. You have helped me. Both of you stayed with me when you shouldn’t have, and I wouldn’t be here without you two. I’m grateful. I can’t tell you how much, but I need friends right now, not guardians.”

“We are your friends Harry, and we just want the chance to stay, to finish this with you. I know we’re doing everything wrong, but don’t give up on us. Okay? We’re trying.”

“I know you are.” Harry closed his eyes. “I just need some space right now,” he began again and then went silent, glancing at the door as if expecting Hermione to march back in suddenly. His shoulders sagged after a minute, and Ron heard the faint click of a door farther down the hallway. 

“Damn it. I hate to see her cry. Tell her… tell her I’m sorry, too, would you?”

“Okay,” Ron agreed, nodding. “I’ll tell her that _you_ want to apologize to her later.” Ron didn’t mind giving her the message, but Harry needed to tell her that he was sorry himself if they were truly going to fix this. He knew from experience that trying to use a go-between only mucked things up worse. Forgiveness could only be asked for and accepted in person.  

“Yeah, you’re right. I should… I will. Later, I promise.” Pocketing his wand, Harry headed for the door.

“You could hear her, couldn’t you?” Ron asked then out of curiosity. “Both times, long before I did.”

Harry stopped. “Yes, I suppose.”

“What… what’s that like?” he asked hesitantly, but then wished he’d kept his mouth shut and let him leave as Harry turned back to him. 

Harry studied him before responding. “I feel completely raw. I can hear everything. I can smell everything. Plus there’s apparently no fucking filter on my emotions. I’m constantly irritable and aggressive, and I can’t get a handle on it. It’s making me bat shit crazy.”

“Blimey, Harry. Remus didn’t make it sound like it would be that bad.”

“Yeah, well. Bill and Lupin aren’t the head cases I am, but it’ll pass soon. At least I hope so.”

“Why don’t you close your door then, so you can sleep? Maybe stuff a pillow under it and toss on a silencing charm or something, too, if it will help. Only… don’t lock it, okay? Hermione and I will try not to disturb you, but don’t lock us out. It freaks me out.”

Looking exasperated, as if his earlier pleas had fallen on deaf ears, Harry stared at Ron. Clenching his jaw, he pressed his lips together in a thin line, caging his tongue behind his teeth as he tried to hold back the fresh diatribe Ron knew he longed to throw at him.

“Look, I’m asking, all right? I promise not to come barreling in there to check you’re all right every time you fart in your sleep or something, but meet me halfway here, okay?”

“Fine. I guess I can do that,” Harry finally agreed.

“Thanks, mate.” 

“Sure, whatever… but I don’t fart in my sleep.”

“If you say so,” Ron replied with a shrug of his shoulders. 

Snorting, Harry shook his head, and Ron grinned at him. 

“Get some rest, git, and maybe Hermione will have a clever idea to get us into Gringotts by the time you wake up.”

Harry raised his hand in response as he rounded the doorway, and Ron was left alone. Then the smile slowly slid from his face, and he laid his head back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling. He still felt unsettled by Harry’s volatility and was relieved to have gotten through that round without digging the hole any deeper. 

Harry had a point. They had been acting like his parents, trying to tell him what he could and couldn’t do, restricting his movements, dictating his actions. It was out of fear, though, out of a need to protect him. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Harry was capable. Of course he was, and Ron knew that better than most. But Harry had no idea how much it had affected him and Hermione to be forced to sit back, powerless, as the Death Eaters tortured him. He didn’t know how agonizing it was to witness his slow painful recovery. He couldn’t understand how strong their feelings for him had become after having come so close to losing him. 

Physically Harry may have been healthy again, but mentally, he’d barely even begun to heal. He just continued to push forward, trying to outrun it. And Ron only wanted to keep him from running headlong back into it. Trying to rein in that protectiveness was going to be damn near impossible.

Harry needed them. He’d been suffering while Ron and Hermione watched helplessly. Ron could see it in the depths of his gaze as Harry stared up at him in confusion on Sirius’ bed that day they’d found him unresponsive in the shower. So he’d done the only thing that made sense to him. His own emotions were completely jumbled up, but it didn’t stop him, and it had felt right at the time. It turned out to be a huge mistake, though. He never anticipated this kind of damage from his actions, never thought it might cost him Harry’s friendship. Part of him wished he could take it back, but another part thought he could fix it if he could just try again, if they could take it more slowly. 

Ron didn’t want to miss out on Harry. He didn’t want Harry to miss out on them. They could be brilliant. They could get through all of this together. Ron was sure of it, he was desperate for it, but he couldn’t force Harry into it, couldn’t make him accept what Ron knew he craved, too. Harry could deny it all he wanted, but Ron knew it was a lie. What happened between them wasn’t one sided. Harry wanted them as much as they wanted him. 

Ron understood that this was awkward, for all of them. It had been awkward for him and Hermione, too, at first. You didn’t just embark on a romantic relationship with someone whose been your best friend since the age of eleven, much less with both of your best friends without a few bumps, especially when one of them was the same gender as you and neither of you had ever had any leanings towards that kind of thing before. This was special, though. Hermione and Harry were special, or maybe their circumstances were. 

Ron didn’t feel this way about men in general; only Harry. If someone had asked him six months ago if he ever thought about Harry in a sexual way, he probably would have beaten the hell out of them. But a lot had changed in the last six months, in the last six weeks really. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, startled out of his musing. He hadn’t heard Hermione come back in, and he sat up quickly.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He went back to bed. I don’t think he’s feeling well, but he says he’s just tired.”

“Oh. All right.” 

“He also wanted me to tell you he was sorry for the things he said.”

She nodded, biting her lip, but continued to stand in the doorway, still looking totally miserable. 

“Come here,” he said, patting the cushion beside him. 

Coming to sit down next to him with her feet tucked under her, Hermione laid her head against his chest, and he placed his arm around her shoulder. They sat quietly for a few minutes while he stroked her neck with his thumb and straightened locks of her curls between his fingers only to have them bounce back when he released them. 

“Is there something you need to tell me?” he prompted finally when she remained silent. Then he started to chuckle. It probably wasn’t the time, but he couldn’t help it. Everything felt suddenly so ridiculous, so amusingly absurd to him.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked, lifting her head to stare at him apprehensively as if worried he’d gone mad.

“What else can I do? I need to relieve some of this tension. It’s that, or start crying. I mean, good lord! Could we possibly muck this up any worse than we have?”

“I don’t know how.” She sat up then fully to look at him. “Ron, I’m sorry—”

He kissed her lightly, briefly and then pressed his finger to her lips. “Come on. Let’s go get you some breakfast. Then you can tell me your version of what happened with him last night, and I’ll tell you about my morning with him, and my visit to Gringotts.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Yes, you are,” he argued, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him. “We need some food to have the energy to face whatever mood Harry’s going to be in when he wakes up. And if you clean your plate, maybe I’ll tell you about the wandless magic he did this morning.”

“The what?”

“Yeah,” he explained as they descended the stairs. “Just a little bit. It freaked him out, though, and he wouldn’t try it again when I asked. He’s either growing more powerful, starting to control it, or more dangerous.”

Despite her protests, she filled her plate with generous helpings of toast and bacon and a couple of poached eggs Dobby had whipped up for her. As they ate, they mostly discussed Harry. But when didn’t they talk about Harry? He was their focus, and not just since they arrived here at Grimmauld Place. He’d always been the center of their lives since first meeting him. 

Hermione told him about her nocturnal visit with Harry, the things they’d discussed, what it escalated into, and Harry’s reaction to it. She talked a lot about her theory that Harry had post traumatic stress disorder, having to explain it to him first, of course. And by the end of their meal, she’d decided to go to a library in Muggle London for some books on the subject to better understand how to help him, insisting on going while Harry was asleep. 

The idea would have amused Ron under normal circumstances. Running to the library for help was just such a Hermione thing to do, but right now, the plan terrified him. Endangering herself for what he thought was an unnecessary trip, to obtain a book of Muggle remedies for a condition she, herself, had diagnosed him with seemed foolish and pointless. Of course, she ignored him completely. Undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm, she dismissed his arguments with a wave of her hand and a determined look, which left Ron with the option of staying here to keep watch on Harry or following her into London to keep watch on her. 

In the end, he decided to go with Hermione, figuring if he was going to try and start this trust thing with Harry, it may as well begin now. Besides, if he had his way, they’d be back before Harry even knew they were gone with the added bonus of shortening her time in the library. If he left Hermione to her own devices, she’d likely be gone all afternoon, which would cause him to go mad with worry. Before departing, they left Dobby with instructions to inform Harry where they were if he happened to wake while they were gone.

They appeared in a wooded area the middle of St. James Square. Hermione led him by the hand down a paved garden path before he’d even had time to orient himself. At the edge of the trees, she stopped and glanced around quickly before pulling off the cloak that was concealing them and stepping into the street. Walking briskly, Hermione still gripping his hand, she continued to lead him in silence while he craned his head around to stare at the buildings that surrounded the park on all sides and at the Muggles they passed. His wand was concealed up his sleeve, but at the ready in case they were attacked. 

The London Library was tucked into the very corner of the rows of unassuming buildings that surrounded the square. It looked almost like a residence, indistinguishable from its neighbors except for the name embossed in gold lettering over the door. 

As soon as they stepped inside, the noise from the streets was silenced, even though there were a fair number of people within its surprisingly spacious interior. It smelled like parchment and wood polish with a musty scent Ron always associated with the dusty tomes of the Hogwarts library or Dumbledore’s office on his brief visits to the Headmaster. The floor was carpeted in deep burgundy, the tables and walls paneled in rich cherry with high coffered ceilings supported by ionic Greek columns and wrought iron staircases that led to catwalks above. The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling two stories high, more books than he’d seen in his entire life. More than Hogwarts and Flourish and Blotts contained combined.

It was clear that Hermione had been here before, many times as she walked with purpose to a counter to confer with who Ron presumed was the librarian. It took her only moments to be directed to an area of the library where books on the subject she was researching were housed.

“I’ve been coming here for ages. My parents have been members since before I was born,” she informed him in a whisper as they walked up staircases and around corners, past rows and rows of books in narrow aisles while Ron continued to stare around the place. Watching the other visitors to the library, he checked to see if any of them were paying Hermione or him any untoward interest, but no one was. 

The place was starting to remind him in some ways of the Burrow, only much fancier of course, with rooms added on as the library expanded when its collection outgrew the space. Each new addition was a slightly different style, carpet giving way to wood, white painted walls changing over to green and wooden and wrought iron railings turning to a more modern steel and frosted glass. It was something, he imagined, like the home he might have with Hermione some day if they could survive this war. A perfect blend of them both, though the walls of their home themselves would be constructed from the books she loved so much, he decided. Laid on their sides, stacked like bricks with their titles facing out and held in place with some kind of magical mortar so that she might always be surrounded by them, able to slide one out when she wanted to read it again. Replacing it and selecting another when she was done. The home expanding and growing as her collection grew or their family did like the Burrow, becoming a lexicon of their lives. He smiled as he pictured it, his fondness for this place growing on him the farther into its depths they went, and he began to relax, feeling safe finally.

“I wish we could’ve gone to the British Library, but it’s still not open,” she lamented. “I’ve been waiting for it to open for years, but it keeps getting delayed.”

“Only you would be disappointed that a library wasn’t open. Were you hoping to spend your summer holidays there or something?”

“It’s supposed to contain the largest number of items of any library in the world. Of course I planned to visit it.” 

They came to a halt, finally arriving at their destination, and she bent down to read the titles on the lower shelves.

“How could you possibly need a place with more books than this?” he asked in disbelief, gesturing around, but she didn’t respond. Apparently, there was not such a thing in her world as too many books.

She perused the shelves, occasionally pulling out volumes to flip through the pages, replacing some while handing others to Ron. Working her way down the rows in silence, she continued to hand him her selections, until he was holding five or more large tomes. Then she looked back through the books he held one by one before she’d satisfied herself with her choices. Walking over to a table, she drew her wand, looking around to ensure she wasn’t being watched, but there was no one in this corner of the library except the two of them.

“Set them down here,” she instructed.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I’m not actually planning to check these out, am I? What if I can’t return them?”

“Um…” The idea that she would be worried that she wouldn’t be able to return a library book on time seemed utterly absurd to him.

Tapping her wand against the first book, she silently cast a spell, and a duplicate of the book materialized beside it. She repeated the process on each one in turn until she had two identical stacks sitting side by side. Then she slid the copied books into her beaded bag.

“Now we’ll just return these to the shelves,” she told him, and they did, carefully replacing each book where they’d found it. Then they covered themselves with the cloak again and Disapparated.

Harry still wasn’t awake when they returned. Ron checked just to be sure. Silently turning the handle of his door that, true to his word, Harry had left unlocked, Ron peered quickly in at him before pulling it closed again and tiptoeing away.

Hermione helped him send a Patronus message to Bill later that morning to arrange the visit, and he responded, saying that he would be waiting for them at two o’clock. She spent the next few hours absorbed in the new books she’d acquired, occasionally reading sections out loud for him that she thought were important.

They had lunch and still Harry slept, until Ron was forced at one thirty to go in and wake him or be late to meet Bill.

“Harry,” he called softly.

Harry stirred on the bed, but did not open his eyes. 

“Harry,” he called a bit louder, though cringing, afraid to startle him.

Opening his eyes, Harry blinked slowly. “What?” he mumbled, yawning and trying to blink himself awake.

“It’s late, you missed lunch, and we told Bill we’d meet him in half an hour. I don’t mean to wake you, but we need to get going. I don’t want to make him wait.”

“All right,” Harry said, sitting up and stretching before sliding his glasses on.

Ron still wasn’t sure Harry was even aware of where he was yet. He’d slept fully clothed, and his shirt was all rumpled as he leaned down to pull on his trainers before getting unsteadily to his feet.

“Just let me just go to the loo first and splash some water on my face. Then we’ll go.”

“All right, no hurry. You should grab something quick to eat, too,” Ron suggested. He stepped back to let Harry pass, and then followed him down the hall. 

In twenty minutes they were all in the drawing room, still feeling awkward after uncomfortable apologies had been made and accepted. They gripped hands. Ron concentrated on the three D’s drilled into his head by Wilkie Twycross, hoping not to get anyone splinched. Focusing with determination on his destination, his mind imagining the place next to the sea shore with as much clarity as he could muster, he turned with deliberation, vanishing with Hermione and Harry.

He knew they’d arrived at the right spot before he even opened his eyes as the wind hit him in the face, carrying the briny scent of the ocean with it. It smelled of salt and seaweed, and more subtly of wet sand and rotting fish. The familiar smell should have reminded him of summer visits to his Aunt’s cottage. Instead, the salty tang of the air evoked memories of his abandonment of Hermione and Harry. It smelled like regret and shame to him now, bringing back the ache in his chest he’d felt for them during his brief stay here during Christmas while Hermione and Harry were off fighting for their lives in Godric’s Hollow without him.

Both Harry and Hermione had made the journey with him intact, he was relieved to see. They stared around, taking in their surroundings. Releasing his hand, Harry walked over to the cliff edge to gaze down at the water crashing against the rocks below.

“The cottage is this way,” Ron said, but the wind tore the words from his mouth, scattering them, making it difficult to hear anything else over the dull roar of it in his ears. It whipped their hair around wildly making it slap against their faces. 

Harry turned back to them, and Ron motioned with his hand instead. 

They headed up the sandy slope to where Ron knew the house stood, but he couldn’t see it as it was concealed under Bill’s Fidelius charm. He spotted Bill on a rocky outcrop, and they made their way towards him. 

Bill had his wand drawn, as did the three of them, holding it down at his side as they approached. His eyes were squinted against the wind, though it was much less harsh here away from the shore, no longer tearing at their clothes.

“What did I tell you in the tree house when you were six years old that made you cry?” Bill asked him in lieu of a greeting.

Ron looked at Bill’s anxious face, and then started to grin. “When I showed you my first loose tooth, you told me it was falling out because I was growing vampire fangs, and I believed you! You didn’t usually tease me, Bill.”

“Damn, it’s good to see you, brother!” He gripped Ron in a bone crushing hug before releasing him to look him over. “How are you? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, of course. Couldn’t be better, Bill, really.”

“Thank God for that! You three really had us worried this time.” Bill reached for Hermione then, kissing her on the cheek. “And you, luv?”

“I’m fine, Bill. It’s so nice to see you.”

Nodding, he then looked to Harry, who’d been lurking behind them both. “Harry. Welcome to Shell Cottage.”  As he spoke the words, sharing his secret with them, the cottage materialized behind him as if curtains painted to blend in perfectly with their surroundings had been pulled back to reveal the home he shared with Fleur.  

Hermione let out a little gasp of surprise at the sight of the modest shell covered cottage now standing alone on the cliff top where a moment before, there was nothing but sky. “Oh, Bill, it’s lovely!” she exclaimed.

“It belongs to our Aunt Muriel and was always my favorite place to visit as a child. Fleur and I love it here,” he explained, though he never took his eyes off of Harry as he spoke. Bill held his hand out, and with only a moment’s hesitation, Harry took it, shaking hands with Ron’s eldest brother, who then clapped him on the shoulder. “Where would we be without you, eh?”

“Safe, probably,” Harry deadpanned.

“Nonsense! They’re safer with you. Half the family would be dead if it weren’t for you. You saved their lives.” He motioned with his hand to Ron and Hermione. Harry flinched at that. 

“Yeah, but it’s my fault their lives always need saving.”

“Not one member of this family will ever regret the day Ron sat next to you on that train to Hogwarts, Harry. You’re a Weasley now, and we stick together.”

“Except for Percy,” Ron contradicted him.

“He’ll come round, Ron. Now come on. Fleur is dying to see you all.” Turning, he held out his arm to Hermione, who took it with a smile, and they led the way past Ron to the house.

Fleur was indeed glad to see them, kissing them all on both cheeks, speaking in rapid French in her excitement as she ushered them into the house. “I am so glad you are ‘ere! Bill and I almost never ‘ave visitors. Oh, but ze place is a mess!”

“Of course it isn’t. You’re home is lovely, Fleur,” Hermione assured her. “I just hope we aren’t intruding.”

“Ne soyez pas ridicule! You are always welcome ‘ere.”

“Yes,” Bill agreed. “And now that you have the secret, you can come whenever you want.”

“Thanks, Bill, but I don’t think we’ll be doing much visiting for a while longer.”

“No, I didn’t expect you would, but the offer still stands. Our home will always be open to you. Now, how about a tour of the place? It’s not much, but we’re proud of it.”

Bill led them on a short tour of the cottage while Fleur made tea. Ron went along, though he’d been coming here as long as he could remember and knew every nook and cranny. He’d even seen Bill and Fleur’s stamp on the place already, having occupied one of the small bedrooms for a short time just a few months back. 

Fleur met up with them again in the walled garden out back where spring had arrived in all its glory. Ron could identify witch hazel, sweet violets, primrose, bleeding hearts and daffodils blooming alongside one another, filling the enclosed space and the air with their color and heady floral scents. 

Harry walked over to a clump of large, pure white flowers, brushing the petals with the tips of his fingers.

“Ah, my very favorite. Ze fleur de lis,” Fleur informed them, setting down the tea service on the small patio table and coming to stand beside him. “A lily. Ze flower of France. A gift from Maman so zat I would always feel at ‘ome ‘ere. Grown from a plant my Papa gave to ‘erze day I was born. It is magnifique, non?”

“Yes, it is,” Harry agreed.

“The most beautiful flower for his new flower,” Bill said then, and she turned, beaming at him.

“My aunt had a garden I helped tend growing up, but she never had lilies.”

“Zat is a shame.”

“I agree, but I don’t think she ever had a fondness for them.” Harry turned his back on the plant then and walked away.

Soaking up the fresh air and sunshine that they’d been missing cooped up at Grimmauld Place for so long, they drank their tea in the garden, engaging in small talk and enjoying the last daylight hours before getting down to the real reason for their visit. Of course Bill knew they hadn’t just come for afternoon tea and pleasantries.

“So, what can I do for you three?” he asked when they’d returned to the sitting room, and Fleur left them to prepare dinner. 

“We have some questions about Gringotts.” Ron explained. “Harry needs access to his vaults.”

“I see, and there’s a ten-thousand galleon price tag on your head, and every member of society searching for you. So strolling into the bank and announcing yourself isn’t the best idea right now.”

“Exactly,” Harry agreed with a nod. “And worse, I can’t find my key.”

“Blimey! Well, if it’s gold you need, Fleur and I would be happy to give you what we have.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. There’s something else stored in the vaults that I need desperately.”

“Yeah, thanks for the offer Bill, but what we really need is to know how to sneak in the place.”

“That’s no easy task, Ron. The goblins are pretty discrete and claim to be neutral, but there’s no telling where their loyalties truly lie in this war. You Know Who is campaigning pretty hard to get them on his side, and you’re going to need them to drive the cart and open the vault if you don’t have the key. My advice to you would be to look elsewhere for what you need or do without.”

“That’s not an option. Can we break in?” Harry asked.

“You’d be mad to try.”

“Well, we really don’t have much choice. I know the vaults have been broken into before. We need to know everything you can tell us about how to get around whatever defenses they have in place.”

“I see what you mean about always being the one that keeps getting them into dangerous situations, Harry!” Bill replied sharply.

“Bill!” Ron growled in warning.

Harry had gone a shade paler, but he didn’t look away from Bill. His face was set in stone, masking his thoughts. “I didn’t ask them to come, believe me.”

Ron could have kicked his brother for saying that. The last thing any of them needed was someone else putting the idea into Harry’s head that they’d be better off if he left them behind.

“Harry isn’t getting into anything he doesn’t have to. We’re not just playing around here, Bill. We have to do this.”

“You barely made it out of the last one alive, Ron!” Bill replied angrily.

“And you didn’t come to save us!” Ron shouted back, suddenly furious at his brother, at everyone in the Order for abandoning them to the horrors of that dungeon. “No one did. We broke into the Ministry all on our own. We broke out of the Malfoy’s all on our own—”

“Because you won’t tell anyone in the Order what you’re doing. How do you expect us to be able to help you, if you won’t tell us what’s going on?” 

Hermione had grabbed his hand and was trying to calm him. Ron had no idea where the sudden anger had come from or why he was lashing out at Bill for things that weren’t his fault, things that Ron didn’t even blame him for, really. Maybe Harry wasn’t the only one suffering from that trauma disorder thing Hermione had been on about all morning.

“God, Bill. I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “I completely lost my head. I don’t know what happened.”

“We’re all under a lot of stress,” Hermione explained, now stroking Ron’s arm while he got himself back under control.

Fleur cleared her throat then, having stepped into the room without anyone noticing. They all turned to look at her. “Supper is ready,” she announced quietly.

“We’re telling you what we’re planning this time, Bill. As much as we can,” Harry said calmly into the silence. “So help us now. Just tell us how to get into the bank, please.”

“I competed against ‘Arry in ze tournament, Bill. I believe if anyone can do it, ‘e will be able.”

“Thank you, Fleur,” Harry said gratefully. 

“I’m not doubting their abilities, luv, just their motives. What could possibly be so vital in that vault that you’d willingly risk your lives to acquire it?”

“I can’t tell you, Bill, but I swear I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

Bill rubbed his face and sighed. “I’m sorry for what I said, Harry. I didn’t mean it, and Fleur is right. If anyone can, it’s you three, but there has to be an alternative. Tell me what it is you need, and we’ll work out another way to get it. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

“I’m sorry, Bill, but we can’t,” Hermione apologized. “What we need is in the bank, and we have to get it. Can you help us?”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” Bill finally agreed. “But I don’t know how much help I’ll really be. I spent most of my time with the bank away from Gringotts, as a Cursebreaker. I only took a desk job once the war started.”

“Thank you, Bill. Anything at all will be greatly appreciated, and more than we know right now,” Hermione told him gratefully, getting to her feet.

Fleur had prepared poached salmon with new potatoes and a spinach salad for supper served with white wine and a spectacular view of the sunset from the dining room window while they quizzed Bill on everything he knew or suspected about Gringotts.

Ron watched Harry as they ate. He seemed normal mostly, unusually cool and calm since they arrived. The nap had obviously relaxed him or maybe it was just being out of the house and around other people instead of being trapped with just him and Hermione for weeks on end. Still, he kept wincing every once in a while, shifting in his seat, and his color was still off, too. 

He’d been around Harry long enough to suspect what was up, but he didn’t want to call attention to it. Harry rubbed his face using his fingers to dig at his temples, and Ron shared a glance with Hermione. She, too, seemed to suspect that Harry was struggling to hide the fact that he had You Know Who’s thoughts in his brain.

 _Brilliant_ , he thought. That was just perfect.

~ . ~


	30. Trust

Ron rolled over, curling around Hermione, and she nestled her warm body into him. The day’s journeys still clung to her skin. She smelled like the library and the ocean air, a strange but pleasant mixture of the indoors and out when he took a deep breath. Sighing, he rubbed himself against her as his desire was awakened, though it was very late, and they were both almost asleep. Maybe they already were, and he was just dreaming of her. He couldn’t be sure, and it made no difference, really. He was content as long as she was next to him, either way. 

They’d stayed late at Bill and Fleur’s, none of them really eager to return to Grimmauld Place. Even Harry appeared reluctant to call an end to it and come back here to begin contemplating their next move, though he’d seemed melancholy since his nap and had clearly been struggling to hide a headache he’d been fighting all day or, more likely, a vision from You Know Who during dinner. 

Going out of her way for their visit, Fleur had prepared a delicious dessert that she called Tarte Tatin, which was like an upside down apple tart, and she served it with cinnamon ice cream, to his delight. They savored it, and afterwards, settled back into more casual conversation again. Ron thought Harry might cut the visit short once they had the information about Gringotts they needed from Bill, but instead they’d spent the rest of the evening just sipping tea, enjoying the rare company and new surroundings until late. 

Bill, too, had appeared unwilling to let them go, knowing the danger they were getting into with the information they’d coerced out of him. Ron thought for a moment he would refuse to let them leave, simply insisting they stay with him, but in the end he let the three of them walk out his front door into the night, though not without begging them one last time to reconsider their plans. 

Ron had done his best to reassure his brother, to tell him they’d be fine, that they’d be careful, but it seemed little comfort for his oldest sibling. Fleur wept openly as they said their goodbyes, and Bill hugged each of them fiercely in turn before they left. Ron could see that the knowledge of what they were planning, of being an accomplice to it, was weighing heavily on him.  It made Ron feel guilty. He wished he hadn’t had to involve Bill in their plans at all, but they’d had no choice. 

Afraid that Bill might have unburdened his conscience and informed the rest of the Order immediately of their plans, Ron half expected to find them all sitting in the drawing room when they arrived. He imagined his parents and Lupin lying in wait, wands drawn, ready to ambush them and forbid them from going to the bank. But there was only Dobby greeting them on their return with yet more tea, his face anxious with worry at their late arrival.

They headed up to bed almost immediately after draining their cups; not wanting to be rude to the elf, but not really wishing to engage in anymore small talk or start mulling over what they’d learned either. It had been a very long day, and Ron was eager for it to end. Well, he had been, at least. Now he thought maybe to stay awake just a little while longer.

He slipped his hand up Hermione’s shirt to fondle her breast, and she whispered his name sleepily, turning her head to capture his lips in a soft, lazy snog, inviting his advances. Dragging up her shirt, his thumb glided along the valley of her spine, feeling her soft, warm skin. As his hand travelled up her side, she placed hers between their bodies to rub him through his boxers, her tongue flicking against his lips. 

Abandoning any pretense, he pulled off her knickers, and ran his hand along the curve of her hip into the dip at her waist and over her ribs. Then, without a word between them, he rolled her fully onto her stomach so that he was lying on top of her. Brushing her hair to the side, Ron kissed the back of her neck, along the hairline where tiny baby hairs curled against the nape, under the strawberry mark at the base of her head, which he couldn’t see in the dark, but knew was there, having discovered it previously. 

He reveled in this knowledge of her, delighting in each new discovery of her hidden secrets, like the birthmark concealed in her hair and the two tiny freckles on her left hipbone. His own freckles were so numerous that you could hardly single one out for inspection, but those two tiny dots against the sea of her smooth, creamy skin fascinated him.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply the faint flowery scent of her hair, and then ran his tongue along the knot of her spine at her neck. Moaning, Hermione pushed the pillows up to lay her palms flat against the headboard and pressed her forehead against the mattress in response, shifting restlessly underneath him and against him in invitation. Hermione was ready for him, and without hesitation, anxious to feel her moist heat around him, he pushed her leg up as she arched her back for him so that he could penetrate her more easily. 

He entered her slowly, and she sighed, letting out the breath as he filled her. Pausing as she adjusted around him, he kissed her once behind the ear and braced his hands beside her. Then, resting his head between her shoulder blades, he surged forward, forcing the air out of her with a gasp, while a moan escaped the seal of his own lips. 

Gathering handfuls of the sheets in his fists, he worked himself within her quietly; both of them grunting softly at the exquisite feel of their bodies moving together. Their effort to remain silent was like an unspoken agreement between them with Harry just across the hall, but the faint rhythmic creaking of the bed betrayed them. When the noise started to make him feel nervous, Ron rolled them back onto their sides so that he was spooned behind her again. He was afraid of disturbing Harry’s sleep, and yet wanted to move faster, harder.

“Open yourself for me, Hermione,” he whispered into her ear, running a hand down her belly. “Let me touch you.”

She did, whimpering in anticipation as she lifted her leg and placed her foot behind his thigh, arching her back once more to hold him deeply inside her. Then bracing a hand against the headboard again, she placed the other on the back of his neck, sliding it up into his hair as his fingers found their way to her folds, feeling where they were joined together. He stroked her slowly with just his hand, building her pleasure before starting to move again. 

The new position did little to stifle the bed noise, but Ron was beyond caring anymore. He’d tried, and there was little more he was willing to sacrifice to satisfy his conscience when it came to Harry and what they were doing. If they woke him, he would just have to understand.

Using his arm to help pin her leg back, he worked to bring them to completion. Hermione buried her face in the pillow, and Ron held his breath when the feeling grew too intense. Then her body was contracting around him. Holding her tightly to him, his hips collided against her with more force until he was emptying himself inside her, unable to hold back the moan of pleasure at his own release. 

Murmuring words of his devotion against her flushed skin as his heart thumped excitedly in his chest, Ron planted soft kisses on her shoulder and along her neck while their bodies calmed down, and their breathing slowed. Then she relaxed her leg, and he slid out of her, nipping at her with his teeth before laying beside her again and pulling her back against him. 

“Goodnight, Ron,” she whispered, stroking the back of his thigh as he nuzzled into her neck. “I love you.”

He kissed her again, mumbling his reply into her hair, and her body went limp against him. Then, feeling drowsy once more, his lids and limbs heavy, his body humming in post coital bliss, he closed his eyes, finally ready to end this day. 

For a while he floated in delightful nothingness, his brain full of pleasant emptiness, before little thoughts started to flutter up, popping into his head like tiny lights coming on in the darkness. Like annoying fireflies, he tried to bat them away, only to have them wink on again in another corner of his mind. His body was ready for sleep, but his brain wasn’t, apparently. Perhaps it was too much caffeine from all the tea, but he couldn’t seem to stop it lingering on their day, on Harry and Hermione, on Bill and Fleur, on Gringotts and Horcruxes.

He thought of how Hermione had reacted to Fleur tonight, more warmly than Ron had ever seen her. She’d been happy to linger at Shell Cottage and chat with a woman she had previously openly disliked, perhaps because Ron wasn’t slack jawed every time Fleur glanced in his direction anymore. Hermione now knew that she was the only woman who could take his breath away, the only woman in his heart, and her own seemed to have thawed towards Fleur with that knowledge.

Fleur was still stunningly beautiful, but his sister-in-law no longer held any appeal for him. However, her sheen hadn’t simply dulled from living in such close quarters with her and Bill over Christmas, de-sensitizing him to her brilliance. For him, it had dulled from living in such close quarters to Harry and Hermione in the tent. His desire to return to them had outshone everything and everyone else. He knew, of course, that he was in love with Hermione, though he hadn’t admitted it to anyone at the time, but he should have known that his feelings for Harry had deepened into something more than mere friendship, too, because he didn’t just ache to have Hermione with him then. He ached for them both.

Thinking about Hermione made him think about Harry. Ron could hardly separate the two of them in his mind. To think of her was to think of him. Hermione was the love of his life. She was everything he wasn’t, so brilliant and beautiful, and he’d never been happier, despite their current circumstances. But Harry was responsible for bringing them together. The likelihood that he and Hermione would have found each other at all without Harry as the catalyst was remote at best. Hell, the two of them weren’t even friends. In fact, they were quite hostile to each other before Harry insisted they find her at Halloween, saving her from the troll Quirrell had let into the castle and forging their friendship. They were two very different people who would have followed two very different paths if they both hadn’t happened to stumble onto Harry’s. And for that gift alone, Ron would fight a hundred trolls, slay a thousand Death Eaters and face another army of Acromantulas to keep him safe.

Fuck, those things scared the hell out of him! Why did he have to think of them? His muscles were too relaxed to shiver with revulsion at the idea of facing any more of those giant, hairy spiders, but they were absolutely terrifying. He still owed Hagrid a sharp kick in the arse, if he could reach it, for sending him and Harry into the forest that night as dinner for his murderous pets. But they weren’t facing hungry arachnids this time, not ever again if he could help it, he reminded himself. If they were, he might find himself paralyzed with fear, and Harry would have to be the one saving him, again.

What they were going to have to face, and soon, was Gringotts. A formidable fortress guarded by clever and bloodthirsty goblins. Those creatures were the threat to Harry that Ron had to protect him from currently, and he wasn’t looking forward to it with any enthusiasm. 

As much as he didn’t want to tonight, he mulled over Bill’s warnings to them about the nature of goblins and the defenses they’d set up to protect the treasures of Gringotts. Still, they couldn’t be as bad as those spiders, he decided, taking shelter in that thought. And they weren’t Second Years with about five defensive spells between them this time, either. Plus, they had Hermione, which surely evened out the odds considerably. But they were going to have a job on their hands for sure, getting to that Horcrux. Ron wasn’t kidding himself about that.

What horrors would this one unleash on them when they attempted to destroy the foul bit of soul inside it? The first one possessed Ginny, manipulated her into opening the chamber, set a Basilisk on Harry, and nearly killed them both. The second took Dumbledore’s hand and almost his life, if Snape was to be believed. And the locket… the locket had tried to use Ron’s own self-doubt to infect his mind with jealousy and poison it with suspicion. It strived to destroy their friendship and shatter his trust and loyalty to Harry. Then it attempted to incite Ron to attack Harry with the sword and spare itself, after it had failed to strangle him.

What would the next one do? But more importantly, what was it? What treasured artifact had Bellatrix been entrusted to protect for her master? Ron felt like they’d been speculating on the identity of the rest of the Horcruxes for an eternity. Was it the badger, the raven, or the lion? Perhaps it was something completely different, or another Slytherin heirloom from the Dark Lord’s own lineage she had hidden for him in the bowels of Gringotts. And what would they be facing if they actually managed to gain access to the Lestrange’s vault to find it? 

Breathing out when Hermione breathed in, his mind wandered aimlessly then through a menagerie of bizarre, imagined creatures and remembered adventures, all his thoughts swirling together as he finally neared sleep. 

They walked through marble corridors, patterned in black and white like a chessboard and illuminated by huge crystal chandeliers. Past mean looking goblins, all bearing their pointed teeth at the three of them and Fang as they followed the spiders over logs and along dark dirt pathways by lamplight, into the spider’s den, which was filled with treasure. The entrance was guarded by two trolls holding secrecy sensors, and Ron imagined he heard the chittering sounds of thousands of restless spiders coming from within its black depths. 

Entering the vault itself, they found it was filled with hundreds of identical golden cups, so that it was impossible to tell one from another. The whole mass shifted horribly under their wand light, growing and swelling as if it were somehow alive and breathing when they drew near. Circling silver ravens with glowing red eyes cawed angrily overhead, ready to attack. Then a massive three-headed lion stepped forward and crouched low, protecting its owner’s secret possessions as it bared its huge fangs and prepared to pounce. 

He didn’t know how long he lay like that, hovering in that trance-like state between awareness and sleep, falling into dreams while still awake, before he registered that he was hearing something more than just their steady heartbeats and breathing. Reluctant to process the information his brain was receiving, incorporating the fearful sounds into his own subconscious, it took him a while longer to comprehend that it was actually Harry he was hearing, and not Fang’s low whine, or his own panicked whimpering. 

Hermione’s hand twitched against his thigh, and Ron opened his eyes, trying to better focus on the sounds coming from the next room. Harry was having a nightmare or a vision of his own, he suddenly realized, understanding finally penetrating the thick fog in his brain. Ron had heard enough of them in his lifetime to recognize the sounds. 

Lying still, he listened to Harry’s faint whimpering and moans. The sound of his body tossing on the bed, and his legs and arms thrashing had Ron fighting the urge to go to him. He knew better than to wake Harry, but he still wanted to check on him, to make sure he was all right. Harry had made it clear that their concern wasn’t welcome, however, that he didn’t want them hovering over him. Finding one of them in his room in the dead of night for the second night in a row would likely send Harry over the edge. So Ron continued to lay there curled next to Hermione, waiting, now fully awake again in the darkness.

After a few more moments, Harry cried out and then went still. Hermione mumbled in her sleep and rolled away from him as Ron lifted his head, straining his ears to listen. 

The bed creaked when Harry sat up and blew out a deep, shaky breath. Then all was silent. Ron knew Harry was awake now, but he stayed in his own bed, trying to let Harry deal with his demons. 

_He’s not a child_ , he kept reminding himself, fighting against his instincts.

The bedsprings creaked again as Harry got up. Ron quickly lay back against the pillows, feinting sleep as he heard him pass, not wanting Harry to know he was awake and aware of his troubled sleep or embarrassed that he might have disturbed theirs. After a moment, he heard the click of the bathroom door. 

Waiting, staring up at the ceiling, Ron listened for the sound of the door, for Harry’s footfalls on the carpeted hallway, for the swishing of his cotton pajamas bottoms brushing together with each step signaling his return. Minutes clicked by, but he couldn’t close his eyes and sleep until he knew Harry had gone back to bed. Then more long minutes of only Hermione’s steady breathing and his own growing unease. He rolled onto his side finally, when he couldn’t convince himself he was being irrational, watching for Harry to pass by the door, but he didn’t return to his room. Sliding out from under the blankets when the worry grew too great, he pulled on his own pajama bottoms and padded silently to the door. 

Harry should have been back by now if he just needed a piss after all that tea, or to wash his face and collect himself from the horrors his subconscious had unleashed on him. It’d been too long. Maybe he was getting sick in the toilet. Maybe he’d had another vision and needed help.

 Ron peered down the hallway. There was light coming from under the bathroom door. He stood there uncertainly for a moment, trying to talk himself back into bed, but he took a step into the hall, instead. Then he was standing outside the bathroom door. He could hear the trickle of water running. It wasn’t the shower this time, but his fear was still growing. Ron knew he was overreacting, but he was reminded of the last time he was standing on this side of the door with Harry in trouble on the other.

Picturing Harry vacant-eyed and slack-faced on the floor again, Ron reached for the handle, and then heard Harry turn off the taps. Pulling back with a thrill of fear at being caught, Ron stepped quickly back from the door as if to flee back to his room. Instead, he got control of himself and leaned back against the wall, affecting as calm an appearance as he could muster. 

He was just going to see for himself if Harry was all right, there was no harm in that, right? Surely Harry wouldn’t fault him for simply showing concern.

Ron had a few more moments in the hall to prepare himself for whatever Harry’s reaction would be at finding him there before the handle slowly turned. 

Harry looked at first startled, letting out a little yip of surprise at finding Ron on the other side of the door. Ron expected that, but then it turned almost instantly to fear. It was the same fear that would have shone on his own face at almost getting caught trying to burst in on Harry. Hurriedly hugging his arms, Harry folded them over his bare chest protectively, mirroring Ron’s own would-be-casual pose. But Harry was even worse at pretending than Ron. His grip was too tight, his posture too stiff, his eyes glancing anywhere but into Ron’s. 

Harry looked nervous or upset, Ron thought, as he carefully looked him over, possibly from the nightmare or from finding himself face to face with Ron in the hallway, half dressed in the dead of night. And he did look ill, too. His face was flushed, his skin clammy. 

“Are you all right?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, it’s nothing,” he said dismissively. “Just a bad dream.” 

Ron’s eyes narrowed, still studying Harry intently, his concern growing. He said he was fine, but his body said otherwise, his eyes still searching for an avenue of escape. 

“Sorry I woke you,” Harry mumbled. He spoke without meeting Ron’s gaze, his voice unsteady, and then he turned. As he made to walk away, Ron’s hand shot out, closing around Harry’s forearm. 

“Wait a min—”

Panicked, Harry tried to jerk away from him, but Ron held firm. His eyes were transfixed on the arm he had in his grip now, staring at the fresh tear in the skin on the inside of the elbow, which was leaking blood. Ron was momentarily frozen, dumbfounded at the sight, yet instantly aware of what caused it. 

He’d done this to himself, Ron realized with certainty, Harry’s fear at meeting Ron now explained. Not expecting an audience in the hallway, Harry had been careless and hadn’t sealed it properly, or it simply pulled back open again when Ron grabbed him. The blood trickled down Harry’s arm as Ron’s eyes slowly travelled back up to his face, which had gone pale, draining of color. He shook slightly when they met, his desperate eyes staring back into Ron’s own. Harry’s mouth worked to form words, perhaps to try and explain away again the cuts as simple scratches, but nothing came out.

 “What have you done?” Ron whispered, breathless with horror at what he was seeing. “Oh, God, Harry! What have you done to yourself?” Jerking Harry forward, Ron grasped him by the upper arms.

“No… let me go.” Harry begged, his eyes huge, wide with fear.

“You asked me to trust you, and this is what you do?” Ron hissed. “How long has this been going on?”

Ron’s terror had turned to outrage that Harry was doing this behind their backs, that he was harming himself without them knowing. He gripped Harry harder, his fingers digging into the skin of Harry’s upper arms as he searched his face. Planting his hands on Ron’s chest, Harry tried to push away from him, desperate to break free, but he couldn’t pull out of Ron’s grip. 

Ron shook him when he didn’t respond. “Damn it! How long? How many times?”

“Just a couple of days. Maybe three or four times,” Harry admitted in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t really know, Ron. Not that many.”

“Not that many?” Ron spluttered, struggling to keep his own voice down in his fury. “Why, Harry? Why would you do this?”

Harry remained silent, and Ron glared at him, at a complete loss. He was so angry he was squeezing Harry hard enough to leave bruises on his arms. Devastated by the betrayal, Ron wanted to shake him and keep shaking him. Instead, he pulled Harry back into the bathroom and pushed the door closed with his foot before finally shoving Harry down onto the toilet seat and releasing him. Dropping back against the door so Harry couldn’t flee, Ron sank to the floor, his hands in his hair. He felt sick now, too, his whole body shaking as he tried to pull himself together while Harry sat like a stone, just staring at him, watching him fall apart.

“Christ, Harry… what do I do? What am I supposed to do?” he asked helplessly, blinking the sudden wetness from his eyes.

“This isn’t about you, Ron. I didn’t ask for your help, okay? You don’t have to do anything. Just be my friend and walk away.”

“Be your…?” Spluttering again with indignation, Ron glared angrily at Harry. “I can’t walk away. If you think I can just let you do this to yourself, you’re barking mad. A friend wouldn’t turn their back on this, Harry. That’s the most asinine—”

“I need to, Ron. I know you don’t understand, but I need to do it,” Harry explained quietly. “It’s just for a little while longer, just until the moon wanes. Then I’ll stop. I swear it.”

“Why do you need to hurt yourself? Why? You’re right. I don’t understand this at all.”

“I’m not trying to hurt myself, honestly. See?” Harry protested, holding his arm out to Ron. “See, it’s not bad. I just need to let it out. It… it feels good. I feel better after. It calms me down.”

Blood still trailed down Harry’s arm, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through Ron. The deep red looked so terribly stark against his pale skin as it made its way to his wrist, where he’d lost so much blood already, as if reminding Ron of how much damage Harry was capable of inflicting on himself. 

“Give me the knife,” he demanded angrily, holding out his hand. “Where did you get it? Where is it? Did you conjur it? Wandlessly? You did, didn’t you?”

Harry shook his head in denial.  

“I can’t remove all the sharp objects from the house if you can just create another one whenever you feel the need to butcher yourself, now, can I?”

“I’m not… it’s not like that. I knew you wouldn’t understand. That’s why I kept it a secret.”

“Explain it to me, then. Make me understand. Give me the knife so I can see for myself. It feels good, does it? Let’s find out.”

“No!” Harry slapped a hand over the cabinet door below the sink, holding it closed.

“No?” Ron asked, staring at the cabinet now where Harry had obviously hidden the knife. “It’s okay for you, but not for me?”

“Ron, please,” he pleaded. “Just leave me alone. This isn’t your problem. I’m dealing with this shit my own way, and if this is how I choose to handle it, it’s not for you to stop me.”

“You must be joking. You think you’re handling it?” Ron shook his head, snorting incredulously. “And would you just sit back like a good friend and do nothing if this was the way Hermione decided to handle what happened to her?”

Harry flinched, and then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Shall I recommend it, then? Tell her how good it feels?” he asked snidely. 

“No,” Harry replied softly, shaking his head.

“You kept it a secret because you know it’s wrong. You kept it a secret so you could keep doing it, and because if we knew, we’d go mental and put a stop to it, and you don’t want that, do you?” he asked. “This is so wrong, Harry. It’s fucked up, and you know it!”

Harry said nothing, staring at his hands so he wouldn’t have to look at Ron, which made Ron want to grab him and start shaking him again.

“Hermione’s right, Harry. You need help. You’re in trouble even if you don’t think so or can’t see it in yourself. And maybe we’ve fucked up so badly with you already that we aren’t the ones to do it, but I don’t know who else to ask. Lupin?  Mum? What about Ginny? She seems to be able to sort you out when you need it?”

“Ron, no!” Harry looked up at him then, horrified at the thought that his secret might be revealed. “I don’t want that. I don’t want them here. Please, just let me be, damn it!”

“I can’t do that. I won’t let you destroy yourself like this, Harry. I can’t watch while you finish what the Death Eaters started.” The tears were back again, and Ron wiped at them furiously before pointing at Harry accusingly. “You said you didn’t need protection. You said to trust you!” he spat. “Swear to stop, or I’ll tell Hermione and Madame Pomfrey what you’re doing. You come to me first before resorting to this, or I’ll do worse. I’ll tell Mum and Lupin and Ginny. I’ll bring the whole damn Weasley clan and every member of the Order down on you, and we’ll watch you round the clock to stop this, if that’s what it takes.”

Harry’s mouth fell open at the threat of Ron’s words. That seemed to have hit him where it hurt, and he looked mortified at the prospect. “No. Please, Ron. Don’t do that to me. I’m sorry, okay?  I won’t do it again. Don’t tell them about this. Please,” he pleaded, his voice shaking with fear.

But he was lying, Ron knew it. He’d say anything right now to get out of this, and it made Ron want to howl in frustration and bang his own head against the wall.

“Damn it to Hell!” he growled.

Crawling over to Harry, he pulled open the cabinet door. While Harry watched him in silence, Ron rummaged around through the toiletry contents until he finally found the knife Harry had hidden. Then he pocketed it. It wasn’t as if Harry couldn’t simply get another, but he wasn’t leaving this one here as temptation either. As it was, he was never likely to let Harry go to the loo by himself again or anywhere else, for that matter. Fuck trust! Harry had just earned himself a constant shadow.

Pulling tissue from the roll then, he wadded it up and used it to wipe away the blood from Harry’s arm, examining the wound more closely while Harry sat perfectly still. 

God! Harry had been slicing his arm open in the same place over and over so that it was hard to tell how many times, but the edges were inflamed, the skin around it bruised. It broke his heart. Tears started to fall again. 

 “I just want you to be all right again, Harry. You know? Please… just be all right again,” he begged.

“I can’t,” Harry whispered, tiredly, watching Ron dab and prod at the wound. “Madame Pomfrey stopped the screaming in my body, but I can’t stop the screaming in my head. It’s just made it that much louder.”

Ron’s chest ached at Harry’s words, as if he had punched him so hard in the gut that he couldn’t breathe. He squeezed his eyes closed.  “You’re not capable of quitting,” Ron told him quietly then when he could speak, sitting back on his haunches to stare up into Harry’s drawn face. “I know that even better than you do, I think, but you’re tearing yourself apart with this, Harry. Don’t do this to yourself. Please. I can’t stand it.” 

Harry didn’t speak, letting Ron get the bleeding stopped on his arm before tossing the tissue in the trash. Then they both sat there, the silence heavy as Ron tried to find a way to collect himself while Harry probably tried to find a way to Obliviate Ron wandlessly, hoping to wipe this revelation from his memory so he could continue to self-destruct.

FUCK! All of this was his fault. He’d driven Harry away from them, strained their relationship so badly that Harry had nowhere else to turn for help, forced to rely on his own perverse mechanisms to cope with what had happened to him. Ron was failing him, failing to protect him even, and most importantly, from himself.

“You told me right after you woke up not to give up on you, and I couldn’t if I wanted to,” he said, gathering his resolve. “I swear I won’t ever leave you again, Harry, and I’m going to help you get through this one way or another.” Sniffling, Ron got to his feet again slowly, his body, his limbs feeling twice as heavy as usual, his legs rubbery. Extending his arm out to Harry, Ron turned his hand palm up. “Come on,” he said grimly, wiggling his fingers so that Harry would take his hand. 

Harry stared at the offer suspiciously. As Ron twitched his fingers again, Harry’s eyes slowly traveled up his arm to meet Ron’s gaze. 

“Take my hand, Harry. Come on.”

Reaching out hesitantly, Harry finally slid his warm hand into Ron’s. “Where are we going?” he asked wearily as Ron tugged him to his feet.

“I don’t care. Out of here, though. I’ve had enough crisis go down with you inside the bathrooms in this house to not be keen to be here any longer. As it is, I’m about ready to ban you from every loo in this fucking cursed place and make you take a piss in a bucket from now on.”

Turning, he pulled the door open and stepped into the hall, dragging Harry with him. A plan had started to form in his mind. 

“We’re going to go find something else that can help you relax, or me at least. Something of the alcoholic variety. And then we’re going to talk this shit out.”

Harry groaned behind him, but didn’t attempt to pull out of Ron’s grip, obediently following behind him.

Ron found what he was looking for easily enough; maybe not quality libations, but something that would do the job, at least. With a bottle of elf-made wine and some brandy tucked against his chest, he led Harry back upstairs and into the drawing room by the hand he’d not yet released. Pulling his chess set out, they settled cross-legged on the floor across from each other, a bottle on either side of the board as Ron set the pieces up.

“We’re gonna get drunk and play chess? That’s your better alternative?” Harry asked with a derisive snort. “You think I should give up the knife for the bottle, is that it? That’s your brilliant plan?”

“Shut it. I said I probably wasn’t the right person to help you with this, didn’t I? But I’m all you’ve got right now, unless you’ve changed your mind about Ginny, or you want me to wake up Hermione.”

Harry shook his head, glaring at Ron. “What I want is for you to crawl back in bed with her, and leave me alone.”

Ron glared back. “Sorry, not gonna happen, mate. But if you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”

“Right, then. Well, it’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m fresh out of good ideas, so this is what you get.” 

“Drowning myself in a bottle of booze, numbing myself with it, frankly, scares the crap out of me, Ron. I have enough problems to deal with. Adding substance abuse to the list somehow doesn’t seem like the brightest idea.”

“We’ll forgo the liquor next time then, and just try playing chess, but I think tonight we both need it to relax enough to talk about this. I can’t stop shaking,” Ron admitted. “I’ll turn the rest to vinegar in the morning.”

“I have no plans for a next time. I said I wouldn’t do it again.”

“Right. I’ll just take your word on that then, shall I?” he replied sarcastically.

He was met with more glaring.

“The blackmailer sets the rules, and that’s me,” he explained, pointing to his chest. “So humor me. If Hermione finds out what we’re doing, or the secret I’m keeping for you, though, she’ll skin me alive, so let’s try to keep it quiet. No giggling, all right?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Shrugging, Ron picked up one of the bottles then, and thrust it at Harry. “Here, and it’s your move first.”

Harry didn’t argue. Taking it from Ron’s hands, he hesitated a moment before putting it to his lips and tilting the bottle to get a mouthful. He swirled it around on his tongue for a bit before swallowing, making a face as it went down. Then he handed it back to Ron, who did the same. Studying the board then, Harry chose one of the goblin pawns and moved it forward.

“My dad always played chess with me to help me focus and relax when I was angry, or afraid,” Ron explained. “It’s a distraction that seemed like a good idea right now. It’s better than sitting here staring nervously at each other, at any rate. Besides, maybe you’ll be a better player when you’re drunk.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed.

They’d both made several more moves and had taken several more drinks from whichever bottle was closer before Ron finally decided to just wade into it.

“Hermione says you have post trauma syndrome, or something,” he announced.

“Does she?”

Ron nodded. “She says you need a special kind of muggle healer.”

“No thanks. I’m not going to some doctor to have my head shrunk.”

Ron looked up at him in surprise. “I didn’t know muggles knew how to do that.”

“They don’t… not really… It’s just a figure of speech, Ron,” Harry said in exasperation.

“Oh, well, she was reading up on it today, and she reckons you’ve got it pretty bad. She said that the irritability you were talking about earlier, and the headaches, and terrible dreams, the being tired and depressed, those are all symptoms,” Ron explained knowledgeably. “She says you need to talk about what happened and maybe get some kind of potion or something for anxiety.”

“I suppose if that’s what I have, I’ve probably had it since I was about a year old, having watched my mum murdered and almost dying myself, so it seems pointless to medicate for it now. And it’s not a potion. It’ll be a pill, like an anti-depressant, or something. The effects would be like the equivalent of a cheering charm mixed with a calming potion, but she can forget trying to make me take more of that,” he replied defiantly. Harry’s hands had curled into fists, his voice rising angrily. “And you already know what happened there. Making me talk about it doesn’t help me, all right? Maybe it helps you and Hermione. Maybe it makes you feel like you’re doing something, but I don’t want to talk about any of it. Not to you, not to her, and not to some damn healer at St. Mungo’s, either. I just want to put it behind me and forget about it.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Fuck you!”

“Nice. That’s real friendly.”

Harry glowered at him a minute and then rubbed at his face before taking another drink. 

“Look, I’m not asking you to re-hash what happened then. I’m asking you to tell me what’s happening with you now.”

 Harry said nothing, staring at his lap or the chess board, anywhere but at Ron, remaining resolutely mute. Ron sighed heavily. He wasn’t giving up, though. It wasn’t as if he thought Harry would just pour out his soul simply because he’d asked. Still, he thought the alcohol might have helped some. 

“Was it a vision?” Ron asked into the silence, forging ahead when it looked like Harry had no plans to start talking.

Harry shook his head. “No, just a nightmare.”

“Don’t lie to me, Harry! I know you’re having them again.”

“It wasn’t. Not this time.”

“You had one earlier tonight, though, didn’t you? At Bill’s.”

His hand hesitating over the board, Harry looked up at Ron. “It’s nothing really clear yet, just feelings mostly,” he admitted. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Hermione about them either.”

“She already knows, or suspects.”

“Fantastic,” Harry replied sarcastically.

“What was the nightmare about then?”

“I don’t want to talk about—”

“That’s not an option, Harry. It’s part of the condition of the blackmail. You talk or I tell.”

“This is stupid,” Harry complained irritably, but then sighed, resigning himself to it. “It was just more of the same, all right? The same things I always dream about now. Sometimes they’re flashbacks of what really happened. Other times they’re just horrible nightmares, things my mind has made up to torture and terrify me. This was one I’ve had before. It’s a little of both.” 

Picking loose strands from the worn carpet, Harry worried the thread between his nimble fingers a moment before letting it fall back to the floor, while Ron waited for him to continue. 

“She was torturing you again, killing you, and I couldn’t get to her in time,” he elaborated without prompting. “I couldn’t save either of you. I was too slow, moving through quicksand.” Harry looked up at him then. “Have you ever had a dream like that?”

“Yeah. I’ve had dreams where I was being chased, and whoever was after me was catching up. I couldn’t move fast enough, like I was trying to run in water.”

 “And if they catch you, something terrible will happen.”

“Right,” Ron agreed. “You wake up terrified, sweat pouring off you with your heart pounding, afraid they’re still right behind you.”

Harry nodded, and Ron took another drink, trying to wash away the dreadful fear he’d conjured, picturing the spiders he’d thought of earlier. 

“The problem is, I know who’s pursuing me,” Harry said quietly. “They’re not my imagination. They have faces and names, and I know exactly what they’ll do to me if they catch me again.” He shuddered, and his hand shook slightly as he took another long pull from the bottle.  Ron watched then as Harry made his next move, remaining silent. “The real nightmare is that I’m running away from them and towards them at the same time,” he whispered.

Harry didn’t offer more, and Ron let the silence grow between them, maybe because he, himself couldn’t yet face the stark reality of Harry’s previous statement, the truth of it too terrifying to dwell on. He couldn’t offer any words of comfort. They were all running towards that end. They had no choice, really, but to face Voldemort.

“When was the first time you cut yourself?” Ron asked next, needing to know if he was to blame for driving Harry to this extreme with what he’d started between them in Sirius’ room.

“Well, the first time I can remember, I was around five and sliced open my foot on a rusty nail at the playground,” Harry responded dryly.

“Funny. That’s not what I meant.”

“Do we really have to do this?”

“Yes, if you won’t talk about this on your own.”

Harry sighed again. “What is it you want to know?”

“Right now, I want to know when this started and why. When was the first time?” he asked again.

“I wanted to when I first woke up after coming here from the Malfoy’s. I think you already know that, but I was too weak. It was near the full moon then, but I didn’t realize that’s what brought it on until this time, and I was healthy enough to feel the full effects. The first time I acted on the urge was before we met with Draco.”

So it was after the fiasco in the bedroom, but Harry was blaming it on the approaching full moon and not on the wedge Ron had driven into their friendship. Or maybe he just wasn’t saying it.

“And doing it makes you feel better?” Ron asked, sounding dubious.

“Look, you don’t understand what it’s like. All right? I tried to explain it this morning, but I’ll be blunter. I either have a raging hard-on, or I’m just raging. Other times it’s both, and I don’t know how to stop ricocheting between the two extremes or relieve the hysteria they cause in me. You saw what I’m like, Ron. My magic just shooting out of me. I’m dangerous. I feel like Jekyll and Hyde all the time now, and cutting is the only relief I can get.” Harry took a long swallow of brandy, his body flushing with embarrassment at the admission.

“Is it like a sexual release, or something?”

“No, Ron!” Harry replied quickly, his face going a deeper shade of red. “It’s not… but I can’t…”

“You can’t touch yourself without thinking about what she did to you.” It wasn’t a question this time.

“Yes. I can’t do that. Can we talk about something else, please?”

Ron took another drink. He was feeling pleasantly tingly, the warmth in his belly spreading out to all his limbs now.

“I could help you, or we could do it together,” he offered without thinking. 

Harry’s eyebrows rose into his fringe, and his eyes went wide.

Christ! That sounded like a pick-up line or something, which wasn’t at all what he meant. Bloody Hell, what was he thinking, asking Harry if he could give him a tug? What the fuck was wrong with him? Offering to fondle him certainly wasn’t going to turn things around between them. Instead of trying to help Harry and get back on solid friendship ground, he was suggesting more intimacy.

Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea. It was making him stupid. That was the excuse he was going to give Hermione, at least, when she demanded to know how he’d managed to completely fuck up whatever inroads they’d made with Harry, or burned whatever bridges remained between them that they’d somehow managed to miss so far.

 “Sorry. I mean, what’s a friendly wank between friends, eh?” he asked with a shrug, hoping a little lightheartedness would make it sound more like a helpful gesture instead of a come-on. 

 “Um… I think I’ll pass. I’m not that drunk yet.”

“I’m trying to help, is all. I didn’t mean that like it sounded, okay? But it’s just… look, if you need relief, I guarantee I can keep your mind off that bitch.”

“You shouldn’t call Hermione that.”

“That’s not funny! And you’re pushing it now,” he warned, pointing an angry finger at Harry’s chest. “I’m not so drunk either that I can’t still whip your arse.”

Harry raised his hands for a moment, signaling his surrender, before slowly dropping them again. "I’m sorry. That was shitty,” he apologized. “I appreciate the offer, Ron, but I don’t see that going well. Okay? I can’t even touch myself. How do you think I could handle someone else touching me like that?”

 “I’m willing to do anything to help you, Harry. If I can’t help with that, then let me help with the rage. You can’t keep bottling it up. I said I wouldn’t sit still for another round of you pummeling me, but that’s not true. I would. If you need to let it out, do it on me, not on yourself. I’ll gladly volunteer.”

 Harry shook his head. He was back to picking nervously at the carpet, his fingers burrowing into the dense fibers. They both had gone silent again, letting the awkwardness pass.

“You said between friends, but we’re not just friends anymore, are we?” Harry asked quietly after a few moments, glancing up at Ron.

“I’m still your friend, Harry, your best friend, and I always will be. I’ll be whatever you want, and I won’t push for more. If friends are all you want to be, I can be that,” Ron said earnestly.

“But you want something more.” 

It was a statement, and Ron couldn’t lie about it. “Yes, of course I do. I’m not going to deny that.”

“I just can’t handle that, Ron.”

“You can’t handle it, or you don’t want it?” he asked, but he was met with only silence. “Harry, I need you to tell me you don’t want me. Then I can let it go. Just say it. Say you don’t want to be with me and Hermione. Make me believe it. That’s all you have to do.”

“I don’t,” Harry began quietly, dipping his head, his whole body starting to shake. “I don’t want to… want you.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Ron whispered, leaning over the board. Putting a hand to Harry’s chin, Ron pulled it upwards, forcing Harry to look into his eyes.

“Please,” Harry pleaded. But a plea for what, Ron didn’t know.

“We don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do, mate. We can go slow. I’ll do whatever you want and nothing more. I swear it.”

He placed his hand behind Harry’s head, his thumb at his throat. Ron could feel Harry’s Adam’s apple rolling as he swallowed nervously, licking his lips as he fought his fear. Then they parted. 

It was an invitation, and Ron wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize it, but he couldn’t take it. Whatever lay ahead for them, it would be shaped by what he did in this moment, right here, right now. They were both well on their way to being drunk, but Ron wasn’t so inebriated not to realize what a disaster it would be to take advantage of Harry right now, to break their already fragile relationship and his promise to keep his hands to himself. Drunken consent was not consent.

What he wanted to do was lean into Harry, press their mouths and bodies together, and pull his earlobe between his teeth, craving more of that ridiculously warm skin, keen to feel the heat of it against his own. Instead, Ron pulled back, running his hand down Harry’s neck and out across his shoulder, his thumb trailing over Harry’s clavicle and down his arm.  Then he returned to his side of the board with a sigh. 

“All right. But you’re going to have to deal with that sooner or later, too.”

Harry’s eyes began to water as he pulled his knees up to his chest protectively. Then he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees. “I can’t,” he mumbled, looking miserable.

Ron watched him, feeling like the prick he was. He shouldn’t have done that. Harry was so vulnerable right now, and Ron was practically begging him. He said he wouldn’t push for more, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Hell, he had no idea what he planned to do with Harry if he got him in the first place. Though given enough time, and the proper encouragement, he felt sure he could figure it out.

Reaching around behind him, Ron pulled a throw from the couch and passed it wordlessly to Harry, who draped it around his shoulders. He curled the ends around his fists to pull it closed around his knees, cocooning himself within it. Then he sat balled up like that for a while, the chess game all but forgotten between them. 

“I just wish we had as much power over you as you’ve given her, Harry.”

“You do,” he whispered.

“Well, I’m bolloxed if I know how to use it.”

Staring at Harry’s bare feet sticking out from under the thin blanket and then at the hem of his faded blue pajama bottoms, Ron puzzled over his words. The only power he knew had over Harry was the threat of blackmail. Ron was blackmailing him to keep Harry sitting across from him now, blackmailing him to keep him from abandoning them and going back to Malfoy Manor for the others. If he had some other power over Harry, Ron wished Harry would just tell him what that might be.

“Hey… Are we okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded.

“Okay, good. I’m sorry about that.” 

He nodded again.

“I can just be your friend, Harry. I can… I’ll work on that.”

Ron had to force himself to stop blabbering then, biting his own lips to prevent them flapping. His mind wasn’t working to clearly, and he wasn’t sure now what to say, how to get back on track with this little intervention, or whatever he was having with Harry. He didn’t really trust himself to speak, afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep from continuing his mindless chatter to fill the empty space between them. 

Before he’d formulated a new line of questioning, Harry took a deep breath and then broke the silence. “I need the loo,” he announced, pulling the blanket off. “May I go to the bathroom, or am I going to have to piss in a bucket in front of you?”

And in that instant, they were themselves again, blackmailer and blackmailed, as if a simple breath had cleared the air between them. Ron’s shoulders relaxed.

 “Nope, it’s fine as long as you don’t mind if I come with.” 

Ron smiled, and Harry scowled at him, staggering as he got to his feet. Ron came up to his knees quickly to assist him, but found he wasn’t much better off, having to place a hand on the floor to keep from pitching face first into the carpet before he could get his bearings and right himself. They both stood close together a moment, trying to get their land legs, Ron with his hand at Harry’s back to steady them both as the room tilted as if they were on the deck of a ship in rough seas. 

“You smell like sex, you know,” Harry said accusingly.

“Sorry,” Ron apologized a bit sheepishly. “I would’ve showered if I’d known we were going to hang out and play chess all night.”

“Wasn’t my idea, and we’re not hanging out. This is some idiotic therapy session I’m being forced to participate in. ’S okay, though,” Harry replied, waving off Ron’s apology. “At least the wine and whatever that other rot gut is, has my senses dulled enough that it isn’t making me panic right now or start sobbing. But the full moon can’t come soon enough. I just want this to be over with. I don’t know how Bill and Lupin stand it.” Harry grabbed onto Ron’s shoulder for support before they started weaving towards the bathroom together. “Damn, I just got to where I could get to the toilet on my own without help. Now I’m back to hanging onto you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’m helping much right now. I don’t think either one of us was feeling the full effects of that stuff until now.”

 “Well, the good news is, I have the finale of this wonderful evening with you to look forward to,” Harry replied sarcastically. “You know, where we end up spending the rest of the night right where we started, back in the loo, taking turns vomiting into the toilet this time.” 

“Ooohhh, I can hardly wait.”

When they got to the hallway, Ron propped himself against the wall directly across from the bathroom door again as he had been earlier tonight and folded his arms across his chest.

“I’ll just wait outside then, yeah?” he offered.

“Can I at least shut the door?”

Ron shook his head. “Not all the way.”

“You’re an arse. You know that? What the hell do you think I’m gonna get up to in there in the thirty seconds you’re going to allow me to empty my bladder before rushing in on me?”

Ron shrugged. “Not my problem, mate. You brought this on yourself. Be happy I’m not insisting on being right there next to you. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you take a piss before. I practically held you up so you could the first few times after we got here. Hell, I bathed you, for Christ sake!”

“For the record, I bathed myself,” Harry replied indignantly, making a rude gesture at Ron as he teetered into the bathroom, running his other hand along the wall to keep from crashing into it. “You just washed my hair. And if you bathed me at any time before that, I don’t want to know about it, all right?” he added sharply.

He didn’t even bother with the door, leaving it wide open instead of bowing to Ron’s terms for his privacy, which made Ron want to smile and thump Harry on the back of the head at the same time. Damn, he was stubborn!

 “You smelled like sex then, too, by the way. It’s part of what freaked me out so bad. I mean, besides the fact that you had your arms around me and your hands on my bare arse. Don’t you and she ever take a break?”

“Would you? And I’m sorry about the bath. That was a stupid mistake. One of many, actually. Oh, and for the record, Madame Pomfrey and Hermione gave you sponge baths before that.”

“Christ! I could have lived without that information, git.”

“Just giving you the facts since you seem to want to set the record straight.”

Ron could see the scars on Harry’s back and shoulder as he stood hunched over the toilet, a hand at the sink to keep him upright. Most of the scars had healed up, except for the bite marks, which never would. Still, he looked so much better than he had that day of his bath. He’d put on quite a bit of the weight he’d lost, so his shoulder blades were no longer jutting out from his back. He was still thinner than usual, but you couldn’t see every one of his ribs when he took a breath anymore.

“Your thirty seconds are up. It’s my turn now.”

Harry washed his hands, and then came to stand in the doorway, blocking Ron’s entrance. “Why Hermione? Why not just Madame Pomfrey?”

“Hermione did most of the nursing, nearly refusing to let anyone else near you. All I did was the heavy lifting and Madame Pomfrey just the healing. It was Hermione that wrapped your arms to stop the bleeding when I first dragged you out of the bathroom. It was Hermione that administered your potions and kept cool rags on you to bring your fever down. She practically wouldn’t leave your side, Harry. She never once hesitated to care for you, no matter what had happened between you two. I told you she never blamed you, and she’ll never leave you. And if I have to tell you again that I’m not going to either, I’ll punch you in the eyeball.”

“In the eyeball?” Harry asked, snorting.

“Yeah, Ginny screamed that at me once when we were younger, and she was furious with me over something. I thought it was hilarious, which didn’t do anything to make her less angry.” Ron was smiling at the memory. Now that he thought on it, it may have been the moment when she hurled the first Bat Boogey hex at him, for which she was so famous. Geez, she had a temper and a deadly accurate aim. He should have known she would be a fantastic Chaser. He looked back to Harry, who was staring at him, the smile gone from his lips. 

“No one has ever taken care of me like that before.” He sounded almost confused, as if totally baffled why anyone would. 

Ron pushed off from the wall and stepped close to him. Then he slapped Harry lightly on the cheek. “Get out of the way, idiot.”

They traded places, Harry now watching him, which was a bit embarrassing, Ron had to admit, but he wasn’t about to shut the door after affording Harry no privacy. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t taken a leak before at public urinals before, but it was different when someone was just standing there, watching you.

When he was through, they returned to the drawing room, to the half-finished liquor and their chess game. Neither could remember whose turn it was, so Ron simply suggested that Harry make the next move. It wasn’t like it mattered. They’d probably both pass out before declaring a winner anyway.

They continued towards Harry’s evening prediction as well, consuming all the brandy and more than half of the elvish wine, until Harry’s face began to droop, his eyes dilated, and his words began slurring together slightly. Ron must have looked the same. His movements were slow and clumsy, and more than once, he’d knocked over chess pieces trying to take his turn.

“Your eyes are blue,” Harry announced suddenly after several long minutes of staring at the board, until Ron thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Always have been,” Ron replied with a smirk. “But well spotted.”

Harry’s face colored, his rosy cheeks going a shade darker as his eyes dipped to study his hands. Then his lips quirked just a bit. “It’s just… I guess I’ve never really noticed before.”

“And you probably won’t remember tomorrow either, is what I’m guessing.” 

“Ginny’s are brown… like chocolate,” Harry continued, finishing his thought as if he hadn’t even heard Ron’s interruption.“Hermione’s are, too, but not the same color, exactly. Hers are kind of gold around the middle, you know? ‘Course you do,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I never gave any thought to yours, though. I guess I just figured they were brown, same as theirs.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all have yours now, can we? Not everyone has eyes that inspire people to wax poetic about them, and then have the drivel sung to them by an ill-tempered dwarf.”

Harry chuckled, his eyes finding Ron’s again as he grinned lopsidedly. “God, that was embarrassing.”

“For all of us, mate.”

“Really? Well, at least I was twelve. The spectacle of you and Lavendar was pretty hard to stomach, Won-Won. Was I ever glad when that was over.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Harry sprawled out on his back then, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting on his stomach, abandoning the game for good, apparently. “I feel soft,” he said. “As if all my muscles have relaxed for the first time in a long while.”

 “Yup,” Ron agreed, stretching out onto his side. “I think I might just sleep in here. I don’t think Hermione will appreciate me coming back to bed smelling like the Hog’s Head. I can’t see that going over well.”

“She already knows,” Harry informed him. “She’s been out in the hall for about a quarter of an hour.”

“Fuck! You could have warned me,” he growled, whipping his head around to stare at the door and nearly falling over backwards when the room didn’t stop moving when his head did.

“I can’t seem to get away with anything. I don’t know why you should. Besides, it’s not my fault. It’s not like I told her,” he argued. “And I wasn’t giggling,” he added defensively. “I think we woke her up when we went to the loo earlier.”

“The two of you are always doing that,” Hermione called from the hall. “Every time I wake up, it seems you’re in the bathroom together, usually having a row.” Then after a moment, she appeared around the doorway. “I don’t even want an explanation of why you’re both up in the middle of the night, completely pissed and playing chess, or whatever. But we’re going back to the bank in the morning, so you two better just sober up and get some sleep.”

She marched into the room, her wand in her hand, and plopped herself down on the couch, looking down on them sternly. Ron thought for a moment she might hex them. Instead, she conjured pillows, which she then tossed at them, hitting Harry squarely in the face with his, before conjuring one for herself and some blankets. She distributed them, grim faced, and then settled herself on the couch and lay down without another word. Extinguishing the lights, she left Ron and Harry to find a comfortable spot on the floor for the night.

“Night, ‘Mione,” Harry muttered, and then giggled, muffling the sound with his pillow.

Ron rolled his eyes.

~ . ~

 


	31. Truth and Consequences

“Dobby!”

Landing unsteadily in the foyer and nearly falling to her knees before managing to throw an arm out and catch herself on the wall, Hermione staggered on wobbly legs, still clutching Harry’s abandoned invisibility cloak.

“DOBBY,” she screamed again, breathlessly. 

She felt dizzy and nauseated, paralyzed with fear and numb with shock. Oh, God! She was in a nightmare. She needed Dobby, he was the only one who could help her. Where the hell was he?

“What is it Miss?” Dobby asked in alarm, appearing in front of her with a sudden pop. 

“What’s the matter? Where is Harry Potter and his Wheezy?” He scanned the foyer quickly with his enormous eyes and then her. “You is bleeding! Dobby will fetch the healer.”

Hermione did go to her knees then, grasping the tiny elf by the shoulders with trembling hands, panic starting to take over. “No! I don’t need the healer. I… I need you to take me to the Malfoy’s.”

His eyes went wide with fear, and he shook his head, trying to pull out of her grip.

“They were attacked… we were attacked, and they’re gone. She took him, and I couldn’t stop it! But I know that’s where they went. Please, Dobby. You’re the only one that can take me there. The dungeons, I need to get to the dungeons. Now!”

 

* * *

 

Hermione woke long before the boys, naturally. When she sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes clear, she found Ron sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his head. His mouth hung open and he was snoring as loudly as she’d ever heard him. In contrast, Harry lay next to him, curled in a tight ball facing Ron with not so much as a toe sticking out from under the blankets. Only the slight rise and fall of his ribs as they expanded in a steady rhythm indicated he was breathing at all. 

He probably hadn’t been allowed to snore at his relative’s house, she thought irritably. Then realized with some dismay that it she asked him, and he was in a sharing mood, she’d most likely discover that it was true. 

Sometimes she thought she’d quite like to hunt down the Dursley’s and give them a piece of her mind and maybe a bit of the business end of her wand for good measure for the horrible way they’d treated Harry. But this morning, they were just an easy outlet for her to vent her frustrations on instead of the two targets lying asleep in front of her, who were the real source of her irritation.

Hermione watched them for a minute, not yet sure if she was angry with their late night antics, or just cross that they hadn’t included her. The last thing in the world Harry needed was to start drinking, though, and if she’d been aware, she certainly wouldn’t have allowed it. But by the time they’d awoken her, they were already three sheets to the wind.  

She still couldn’t believe that Ron had actually let him do it, facilitated it and joined in even. People with PTSD were prone to substance abuse problems. Didn’t she tell Ron that? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she hadn’t read that part out to him, thinking, of course, that it was unlikely that Harry would consume alcohol as averse as he was to calming or pain potions. Clearly she’d been wrong about that. Still, Harry did at least look relaxed right now in sleep, and he’d seemed to be last night, too, so she couldn’t complain very much, she realized grudgingly. Perhaps there wasn’t any harm in one night, but she planned to have a talk with Ron to ensure it didn’t happen again just the same. Then she intended to purge the house of whatever remained of the alcohol to make sure of it.

Chess pieces lay scattered between them, having been kicked over in the night or pushed aside as they’d tried to find a comfortable spot on the floor to sleep. Harry had probably had no trouble. He’d told her he could sleep almost anywhere, and she believed it, but Ron was surely going to be miserable this morning. In a brief moment of pity, she considered performing a cushioning charm, but then decided it was too late to worry with it now. They needed to be up soon anyway. 

The three of them hadn’t all slept in the same room for days now. The first night they’d come to Grimmauld Place after fleeing the wedding last summer, they’d spent the night in here like this. She felt a little déjà vu at finding herself in here with them again after leaving Bill and Fleur’s last night. Of course it hadn’t looked like this. The room had been completely different then. They’d been different then, too. Everything was.

Smothering a yawn, Hermione got to her feet before folding the blanket and stacking her pillow on top of it. It was kind of nice all being in here together again, although Ron’s backside would probably disagree after a night on the hard floor. But she could almost pretend that it was September again. All of them sleeping in the drawing room and planning their stakeout of the bank instead of the Ministry this time, and her grouchiness simply a result of Ron’s annoying habit of fiddling with the Deluminator out of boredom, which caused all the light to be sucked from the room repeatedly while she tried to read.

Stepping cautiously over Ron, she leaned down to pick up chess pieces to return them safely to their box while he continued to snore loudly on the floor. When she straightened up, Harry was squinting up at her with bloodshot eyes.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he croaked. Wincing, he stretched out his legs and propped himself on his elbow. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his fingers into his eye sockets, moaning. 

“Headache?”

He nodded gingerly. “Least I didn’t throw up last night.”

“What were you two thinking?” she asked, exasperated. “What happened?”

Searching for his glasses, Harry slid them on and then rolled onto his back with a painful sigh. “I had a bad dream. I think it woke Ron up, and he was just keeping me company,” he explained.

“Well, that’s all fine and good, but you shouldn’t have been drinking, Harry,” she admonished in a harsh whisper.

“It was a really bad dream,” he replied, groaning and smirking at the same time. “It was neither fine, nor good. I’ve learned my lesson, though. Won’t happen again.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, suddenly worried, her irritation with him all but vanished, replaced by concern.

“Nope.  Not in the least. I’ve talked about it last night all I wanted, thank you, and then some. That reminds me,” he added crossly, sitting up again and going a bit pale before clutching his head. “Would you please stop telling Ron your theories about what’s wrong with me? If I have to spend another night with Doctor Ron, I might just go completely mental.”

“Told you about that, did he?” she asked, her lips quirking in unexpected amusement. 

“Mmmmm,” he affirmed, nodding again and wincing. “What he could make of it, at least. Muggle medicine is a bit beyond him. I don’t think he has much of a future as a therapist.”

Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he scowled at the memory. Hermione bit her lips, trying not to smile and make his own bad mood worse as she pictured Harry lying on the couch with Ron perched in a chair in a white lab coat and a monocle, taking notes. Showing amusement at Harry’s irritation was probably not wise. When it came to being surly, no one could compete with Harry, and she really didn’t want to get into a contest with him this morning.

“That’s not the way I intended to approach it with you,” she said when she’d managed to get her facial muscles back under her control.

“Too late, cat’s out of the bag now.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know, and nothing I want a repeat of,” he answered curtly. “The subject’s closed, Hermione.”

She didn’t argue. They were still on shaky friendship ground as it was after what happened the other night in his room and then yesterday morning’s row. Neither of them was in the mood to discuss it without getting into another, so she decided to concede this one. Harry wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say right now, anyway. That much was clear. She really wished Ron hadn’t said anything to him at all, though, and had let her handle it. He’d taken the initiative, however, and she hoped at the very least that he hadn’t garbled up the message too badly last night in the telling, since it didn’t look like Harry was going to be receptive to another discussion on the subject.

“Ahhh, sodding hell,” Harry moaned suddenly, kicking Ron, who abruptly stopped snoring. “Shut it, would you?”

“Would you like me to get you a pain potion?” Hermione wasn’t feeling very much sympathy, and knew Harry would refuse anyway, but it seemed only polite to ask, after all. In fact, what both boys needed, she thought, was to have to deal with the consequences of their actions. Forcing them to suffer with a terrible hangover this morning would hopefully make them think twice about repeating the experience.

“No. Don’t you have anything in that bag of yours that won’t knock me out?  Like a hangover cure, or just some aspirin, maybe, for this headache?”

“Why would I keep a potion for hangovers in my bag, Harry?” she snapped, placing her hands on her hips as she glowered down at him. “When we left the Burrow, it never crossed my mind that we might need something like that to recover from our nightly binges.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry put his face in his hands before digging his thumbs into his temples.

“I do actually have some aspirin, though,” she added as an afterthought. “It’s the best I can do to get you both on your feet, since they haven’t invented a potion yet that can remedy idiocy.”

Harry peered up at her reproachfully from between his fingers. “I said it wouldn’t happen again. I don’t need a lecture.”

“I thought you were supposed to have more of the hair of the dog that bit you,” Ron mumbled, opening his eyes and then swiftly closing them again, throwing an arm over his face and groaning.

“Come on, get up,” Harry said, nudging Ron again with his foot. “I need the loo.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose quizzically. “Do you need some assistance or something?”

“No, a chaperone,” Harry replied dryly.

Before she could even ask what that meant, Ron sat up quickly, glaring warningly at Harry. “Oh, fuck me!” he growled clutching his own head and moaning in pain. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry got unsteadily to his feet and then held a hand out to Ron.

“You go on ahead.  I’ll crawl there in a bit,” Ron said weakly, waving off the offer of help.

She checked again. Nope, still no sympathy growing. Hermione wasn’t about start feeling sorry for them and let them have a lie-in today after they’d kept her up half the night. Shaking her head in disgust, she left to get her bag. 

When she’d returned from the basement kitchen with a glass of water and a handful of aspirin, she found them both on the couch looking miserable. Harry was sitting on the end closest to her, still curled up with the blanket, and Ron was draped over the other end, her pillow over his face, his head resting on the arm of the sofa. It didn’t look like either one of them was going to be much good for company today. Served them right, though. 

Why was she the only sensible one? Why was she always the one expected to clean up the messes these two made? They left her asleep in bed while they sat up all night, playing games, getting drunk, and discussing embarrassing moments with past girlfriends and everyone’s eye color. Well, that part made her smile, actually. 

Harry seemed to have a thing for girls with brown eyes, didn’t he? Hermione hadn’t heard him mention Cho’s last night, but hers were brown, too, and the Patil twins, though Harry never really fancied them. He’d only asked Parvati to the ball out of desperation. Clearly, he’d spent much more time studying the difference in color between hers and Ginny’s. The thought made her go slightly warm in the cheeks. But still, they’d excluded her last night, left her to linger in the hallway, reduced to listening at the door to their private conversations. 

Hermione knew she was being overly sensitive, foolishly jealous of the time they’d spent together last night, at the closeness they seem to have re-established while she and Harry were still somewhat estranged. She shouldn’t begrudge Ron or Harry that, though. It’s what she wanted, their relationship repaired, and what had happened between her and Harry was Hermione’s own fault. 

Perhaps it was easier for Harry to accept Ron back as his friend. There was certainly less that had happened between them to overcome. Whatever Harry might feel for Ron wasn’t confused and tangled up in his mind like it was with the painful memories of what had happened in the dungeons with her. Harry might be able to examine those emotions, accept them without the horrible guilt and shame that tainted his feelings for her.

Giving herself a little mental shake, Hermione sighed in a way that she hoped conveyed to them how heavily put-upon she was, then passed out the aspirin, handing the glass of water to Harry. Ron looked at the two white tablets in his palm dubiously for a moment before popping the pills into his mouth to chew them up. Then he made a horrible face.

“You’re supposed to swallow them, dolt,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes, passing the glass to Ron.

“You might have mentioned that,” Ron choked out, quickly gulping down the remaining water to wash the bitter, chalky taste off his tongue. “Disgusting! Muggle remedies are just as vile as wizard ones. Is it down in the rules that they all have to taste like bat droppings? Blimey, would a bit of sugar ruin their effectiveness or something?” he asked in dismay.

“I’ll leave you to your misery,” she told them waspishly. “I’m going to shower and get dressed. You two better pull yourselves together. Don’t think I’m going to take pity on you today. We have plans and you idiots aren’t ruining them.”

“Thanks, luv,” Ron grumbled to her retreating back. 

Lifting her hand as she rounded the doorway, Hermione gave a mock cheerful wave in reply.

By the time she’d come back downstairs, Harry had finished with his shower as well, and was back on the couch, damp haired and clear eyed, pulling on his trainers. They headed down to the basement kitchen together without waiting on Ron, who had presumably taken Harry’s place under the shower spray.

“Oh, God! How can you eat that?” Ron groaned, looking horrified, when he joined them in the kitchen a few minutes later. He pulled out the chair across from her, his complexion decidedly green. His eyes were still red-rimmed and bloodshot. 

She’d requested a full English breakfast of Dobby this morning, partly because she wasn’t sure if they would be back for lunch and partly to torture the boys a bit more, which had clearly worked on Ron, but had no affect at all on Harry as he speared a sausage with his fork. For Ron, however, the sight or smell of his own plate of fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon, sausage, beans, black pudding and toast had turned him an even deeper shade of avocado green. Harry just shrugged at Ron’s disgust and continued to eat. 

“I was hungry,” he explained around a mouthful of beans. “And I’ve felt a lot worse than this, believe me.”

Dropping into the seat next to Harry, Ron pushed his plate as far away as possible and curled himself around the cup of tea Dobby had just placed in front of him. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and his extreme pallor made him look like he was coming down with a bad case of the flu.

“Maybe this will be a reminder to you, Ron, to try and deter Harry from drinking in the future instead of joining in,” she said crisply, still resolutely refusing to let his peaky appearance influence her.

Ron and Harry glanced sideways at each other for a second, before Harry looked away again to continue his breakfast.

“You don’t have to be right all the time, you know,” Ron muttered sourly, sliding the toast off his plate and nibbling on it experimentally.

“You’ll need to eat more than toast,” she told him, pushing his plate back towards him again. “We might be late getting back, and you’re going to be starving.”

Ron scowled at her, leaning back in his chair as far as he could to get the offending smell of his breakfast out from under his nose. “I don’t think I can. What are you planning today anyway?”

“Well, Bill knew about the guards, of course, didn’t he?” she began. “They were stationed at the bank once You Know Who had come back out in the open after our fifth year. But he doesn’t really know much about their routine or anything that might have happened with security at the bank since he went into hiding after our escape. So, I want to continue to stake out Gringotts. Watch them for a few days, get a feel for who they are, their movements and practices. We need to know everything we can about their habits. I want to know when they arrive, when they take breaks or change shifts, when they leave for the day. Everything.”

“And what will that tell you?”

“Well, among other things, it will tell us how they interact with patrons and other bank employees. Are they lax about using the probes on co-workers? Is there one or more that they’re particularly friendly with? Perhaps we can impersonate one of them like we did with the Ministry employees, and slip past the guards without having to stun them. We might also be able to get into the vaults that way without rousing suspicion.”

“But we still don’t have the key,” Harry interjected.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We’ll still have to figure out how to get into the vault once—”

“We have Draco’s hair don’t we?” Ron asked, interrupting her. “One of us can impersonate him, one under the cloak, and the other disguised as a bank employee.” Holding up his hand, he ticked them off with his fingers as he spoke. “We can talk our way past the guards that way. Say Draco is there on his aunt’s behalf, or something. They’d surely let him into the vault.”

“We still don’t have the key.” Harry reminded them again. “Even with Draco and a bank wizard, Bill said we can’t access the vault without the key or a goblin.”

“I didn’t say I had all the answers, Harry, but I’m going to start with the first obstacle and work from there.” 

Bill had given them the name of a goblin he was friendly with at the bank, as friendly as anyone could be with a goblin, at any rate. He told them that Ragnok might be sympathetic to Harry and show him to his vault without the key or his wand as verification of his identity, but he couldn’t be sure. Bill had tried unsuccessfully to talk the goblin into siding with the Order a few years back. Still, he warned them, it would be a huge risk for Harry to reveal himself on the off chance that Ragnok would cooperate, and of course, they couldn’t do that anyway, even if the chances were good he’d help. It wasn’t Harry’s vault they needed to access, and there was no way any of the goblins of Gringotts would help them break into someone else’s. 

It was looking increasingly likely that they would be forced to use the Imperius curse on one or more of them, though she wasn’t ready to say that out loud just yet. Suggesting the use of one of the Unforgivable curses didn’t seem like the kind of thing you just tossed out over breakfast, not that planning a robbery of the bank wasn’t just as illegal, and never mind that they were already wanted for the break-in at the Ministry and for attacking several of its high-ranking officials. Hermione didn’t even count the fact that she was wanted for failing to appear for questioning by the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, or that she and Ron were on the run, aiding and abetting Harry Potter, _Undesirable Number One_. 

Good lord, what a bunch of outlaws they were! Quite possibly, they were the most wanted witch and wizards in all of Britain. If they lived through this, the three of them would likely be spending the rest of their lives in Azkaban. Maybe Harry’s fame would at least get them adjoining cells, she mused. More likely, they’d be hung by their ankles, left dangling at opposite ends of the prison. Hermione thought she might be able to handle living out her days in prison, as long as Ron and Harry were near her, and they didn’t put those horrible silencing charms around her.

“So what are we going to do?  Sit outside the bank all day like we did at the Ministry?” Ron asked, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“Yes, I thought we would,” she confirmed with a nod of her head. “I want to know everything we can before we make an attempt on the vault.”

“We only have one cloak. So why are we all going then?” Harry asked.

“Well, the second obstacle right now is our supply of Polyjuice potion. We only have enough left for one more dose. We need some supplies.”

“It takes a month to make, Hermione! We don’t have that much time,” Harry argued.

“What other choice do we have? The plan Ron just came up with requires two doses, which we don’t have. And we can’t really fit two of us under the cloak anymore, either. So, that rules that out. We may as well plan ahead for it. If we come up with a better solution before then, we can act on it. It certainly won’t hurt to have a batch brewing.”

“Fine, but I’m running short on gold, so I hope we have enough to get what you need.”

“I only need the boomslang skin and bicorn horn. I have the rest of the potion ingredients in my bag.”

“What don’t you have in that bag?” Ron asked.

“A key,” Harry retorted, mopping up fried egg with his toast. “Or perhaps some Felix Felicis. If we’re willing to sit around for a month, brewing up potions, that one would help us get that Horcrux more effectively than Polyjuice.”

“Felix Felicis takes six months to brew.”

“I know that, Hermione. I wasn’t actually serious. Although I’d love to have some right now, I don’t have plans to try and whip up a batch,” he replied waspishly. “Now, if you still had your Time Turner…”

He went silent. The Time Turner was an object both of them had speculated on recently and even discussed that night in his bedroom. She knew he was remembering that, too, and everything that came with it, everything he would like to erase. Wouldn’t they all like to turn back time right now and start over, she thought heavily.

“So, your plan then is for one of us to just march into the apothecary? With all three of us on the top of everyone’s most wanted list.” Ron asked incredulously, breaking the silence.

“No. My plan is to transfigure my appearance enough so that I can’t be recognized, give a fake name if they ask, wear a hooded cloak and be out of there as quickly as possible.”

“You think it’s going to be you, then, do you?”

“Ron—”

“Nope. Hell no! You’re not traipsing down Diagon Alley alone, in broad daylight. I’m coming with you. You can transfigure me, too.”

“And just leave Harry to sit at the bank?” she asked pointedly, eyebrow raised.

Harry snorted into his plate at that. “That won’t do, will it, Ron? What a conundrum,” he said sarcastically.

“Shut it,” Ron snapped. “I’m in no mood today, Harry.”

Well, that made three of them, didn’t it?

“Not Fluffy,” Harry whispered almost sing-song under his breath, glancing up at her a moment before returning to his plate.

“Look, why don’t Harry and I get the supplies you need, then, and meet you back here? Then one of us, or all of us can go to Gringotts,” Ron argued, ignoring Harry.

“Because, Ron, the bank will have opened by then, and I want to be there before that happens. You’re being ridiculous. I’ll be fine. You and Harry will go before Gringotts opens, Harry under the cloak, and you Disillusioned. You shouldn’t be noticed if you get there early. You said there was hardly anyone on the streets, anyway. And there should be even less people milling around this early in the day before any of the shops are even open,” she explained. “Once they have, I’ll follow and get what we need and walk past you two so you know I’m fine, before I Disapparate back here and get the potion started. Then at lunch, Harry can come back here to Dobby, and I’ll use the cloak and take his place.”

Hermione knew Ron could spot the hole in her plan, which is why she mentioned Dobby as a subtle suggestion that the elf would keep watch on Harry while they were gone under her orders to report to them immediately if he left, or to perhaps use his magic to bind Harry to him, if he could be persuaded to do that. Of course, she hadn’t worked any of that out with Dobby.  Not yet.

Ron was scowling, his hands curled into fists on the table, still clearly not satisfied with the plans she’d made.

“God’s sakes! Put your mind at ease, Ron. I’ll be just fine with Dobby as a sitter,” Harry snarled, pushing his plate away and standing up. “I’m not planning anything. I won’t be getting up to any hijinks while you’re gone. You’ve made it abundantly clear what you would do if I tried.” 

“You know it’s not just that,” Ron hissed under his breath.

Harry glanced at Hermione a moment before he spoke. “Fine. Search the house then, make sure I haven’t stashed any Firewhiskey or anything under my bed. Dobby would be delighted to help with that, too, I’m sure,” he said, sneering at Ron.

They both glared at each other then while Hermione wondered what Ron had threatened Harry with, and if Ron had stumbled onto the discovery of Harry’s night time drinking last night, or something. Perhaps it wasn’t a onetime occurrence. It made his comment last night about not getting away with anything more sensible, at least. It still didn’t explain why Ron joined him, but it did reinforce her resolve to purge the house of any remaining alcohol. 

“Look, none of us is going to get anywhere with this Horcrux hunt if you’re both too busy keeping watch on me.”

“Harry’s right, Ron,” she agreed. “We all have the same goal here, and we need to start trusting each other and work as a team again. It’s too dangerous for us if we don’t.”

Ron gritted his teeth, but said nothing, his eyes focused on Harry, who stared innocently back. As if judging his sincerity, Ron waited for Harry to blink first, or flinch, to show some sign of duplicity, but Harry didn’t waiver. Finally, Ron stood up and turned from the room. 

“Fine. I’m going to get my coat.”

Hermione watched him go for a moment, and then followed him out.

“Ron?” She caught him at the stairs. “Ron, wait, please.”

Still scowling down at his feet, he stood there, one foot on the bottom stair and a hand on the banister, but did not look at her as she came up to him.

“Listen. Why don’t I take your place, then, instead of Harry’s, and you can come back at lunch, if it’s that you’re worried about him being here alone,” she offered.

“And I’m supposed to just sit here twiddling my thumbs with both of you out there?” he snorted angrily.

“That’s the reason I have two of us stationed at the bank, so we’ll have backup if something unexpected happens. It keeps us all safer that way. We can’t all be there all day long, every day, and we can’t alternate and expect Harry not to balk at being left here with one of us to guard him. But we can’t sit still anymore either, Ron. You know that. We’ve been idle for entirely too long. We have to move forward. We have to trust each other.”

“Trust,” he muttered. “Yeah, right.”

She studied his profile. “Ron, what happened last night, with Harry? What aren’t you telling me?”

He looked at her then, and she saw guilt in his eyes before he quickly glanced away. “Nothing. Harry just had a nightmare. I heard him get up and followed him to the drawing room. He just… he didn’t want to go back to bed, so we stayed up and played chess for a while. That’s all.”

“And the liquor? Was he drinking when you found him?”

His ears went slightly red. “No. I can’t keep letting him take the blame for that. I made him promise not to tell you, but it was my idea. He was… well… pretty upset, and I thought it might help him relax.”

Hermione watched him in silence a few moments, her eyes narrowed, while he continued to stare at his feet, avoiding her gaze. “You’re lying to me,” she accused, finally. “I know there’s more to last night than you’re saying. You and Harry are both lying, both keeping something from me. You’re covering for each other. I’m not an idiot, Ron. I can tell by the way the two of you are acting.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Ron!”

“Look, just drop it, all right? You said it yourself. We have to trust each other. Trust me then. Trust that I’m doing what I think is best. I’m keeping my promise, so he’ll keep his. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Now she was alarmed, and she reached out to grab his arm, attempting to prevent him from fleeing up the stairs to escape her questions.

“I wouldn’t keep it from you if it wasn’t important. All right? And he can hear every word we’re saying right now, you know. Even from the kitchen. But I want him to hear. I want him to know it won’t be me who breaks this trust. I won’t betray him. I’m sorry, Hermione, but go interrogate him if you want answers.”

Hermione stared at Ron, round eyed and open mouthed, feeling hurt. Had he caught Harry doing something worse than drinking? Did he catch him sneaking out, perhaps? Did Harry have another episode of wandless magic or maybe a vision? What did Harry make Ron promise to keep secret from her, and why wasn’t she allowed to know about it? Surely it wasn’t anything dangerous? Ron would never keep information from her that might be harmful to one of them.

Releasing his arm, she stood there a moment before nodding her head finally in reluctant acceptance. “All right, Ron. I don’t like it, but I’m going to let it go for now,” she said grudgingly, and then in a more pleading tone, “Listen, we’re all leaving soon, splitting up, and I don’t want to leave angry with you, or you angry with me. Okay? Please?”

He nodded, grasping her hand with his and squeezing her fingers. Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Everything’s all right, ‘Mione, I promise. Everything’s going to be fine. Okay?”

She bit her lip, looking up at him, but again, Ron wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he was staring back down the hall. Turning, she saw Harry standing there. Arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, he grimly watched them. Apparently, he’d decided to just come out in the open instead of maintaining the pretense that he wasn’t fully aware that he was the subject of their conversation, or that he hadn’t heard every word of it. 

Harry and Ron stared at each other a few moments, and then Ron squeezed her hand again before he released it and headed up the stairs. Letting him go, Hermione turned to face Harry instead, who was walking slowly up the hall. He came to a halt in front of her. She waited, but he said nothing. Evidently, he had no intention of sharing anything more with her than Ron had about what had gone on last night.

The silence dragged between them as she stared into his face. A face she used to know so well, a face she’d once been able to read with a single glance. Now he was like a stranger to her. What used to come so effortlessly between them, their easy friendship, had become a struggle. Hermione felt like she was losing him. As if the best friend she cherished so much was hardening to stone right before her eyes, the fire within him, a kiln for the clay. Becoming just a statue of the man she loved. Hermione could see it in his eyes, the distance, the separation, and she had no idea how to stop it.

Sighing heavily, she held out her hand to him. After a moment, Harry hesitantly placed his in it, twitching slightly when she curled her fingers around its warm heat and slid her other hand over his.

“What I said goes for you, too, Harry. I don’t want us all to part angry with each other. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’ll trust that whatever it is, you’re working it out.”

He nodded, but remained resolutely mute.

Releasing his hand, she looked up at him again, capturing his eyes with her own. “Watch after him today, Harry. Keep him safe,” she urged him in a whisper. 

Harry opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again before simply nodding his head. Then she, too, turned and followed after Ron, leaving Harry in the foyer.

Ten minutes later, Harry and Ron had departed together to take up their positions at the bank, both of them nearly invisible so that she could only hear the twin pops as they Disapparated. When she followed, appearing nearly an hour later in Diagon Alley, her robes still twirling around her ankles from her rapid turn of Apparition, she looked around nervously. With slightly shaking hands, she pulled her hood down farther to hide her altered face before taking several deep breaths to calm her nervousness. Despite the assurances she’d made to Ron that she’d be fine on her own, she was terrified to be here without them.

Her hair was now blond, hanging longer without the curls with enough slight modification to her features to make her unrecognizable as the mudblood on the run with Harry Potter, but she was still herself underneath. She might have looked like Luna’s sister, but in her mind, she was still just Hermione Granger, a fugitive, wanted by the Ministry and the Death Eaters, out here all alone like a rabbit in the middle of a wolf’s den.

Squeezing her fingers around the wand in her pocket once for reassurance, she took another deep breath, and then began walking slowly towards the Apothecary. She could see the gleaming white of the bank in the distance and squinted at it as if searching for Ron and Harry near the entrance, which was ridiculous. If she could see them, then there would certainly be cause for alarm.

Just as Ron had described it, there was very little activity on the street. Only a couple of vendors, who were still setting up their carts, were about, hoping to sell to the few shoppers who might brave a trip to the Alley today. The nearest was squat with scraggly, matted, ginger hair. Bent over and arranging his goods, his back was to her. A powerful smell of stale tobacco hit Hermione’s nose as she drew near him. It was Mundungus Fletcher, she realized suddenly, preparing to sell his wares, which he’d probably stolen. Tugging on her hood again, she kept her head down and moved swiftly towards her destination, giving him as wide a berth as possible. 

She was sure he wouldn’t recognize her with her disguise, but she still wasn’t eager to confer with the Order member. On their last meeting, he’d been tailed for days and then dragged to Grimmauld Place by Kreacher, who’d then hit him over the head with a saucepan while Harry attempted to interrogate him about the whereabouts of the locket he’d stolen. Somehow, Hermione didn’t think he’d be all that glad to see her. Mundungus was first and foremost, a greedy little thief, who would likely show no loyalty to Harry, or the Order, if given the opportunity to collect the current reward for the price on their heads. And she wasn’t fool enough to tempt him. Out here, alone, he was no ally of hers today.

“’Ello there, miss,” he called out to her as she passed, making her cringe. “The streets is no safe place for a lil’ dove like yourself. Perhaps I can interest you in a nice protective amulet? Ward you against Dementors and Inferi. Even protects against lots of hexes and jinxes. Normally ten galleons, but I’ll sell it to you for five. Bargain, eh?”

Shaking her head, Hermione quickened her pace. She was only a short way now from Slug and Jiggers Apothecary. Rounding the corner and out of earshot of Mundungus, she stepped up onto the stoop of the shop. The bell above the door jangled loudly as she entered, making her jump and nearly run off, shrieking in fright. Releasing her tight grip on her wand, she mentally shook herself. Her heart was hammering, and she felt short of breath as if she’d run all the way here from Grimmauld Place. She needed to calm down. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. No one was chasing her. Mundungus hadn’t recognized her, she told herself. There was nothing to be afraid of.  She was just a customer, here to buy potion ingredients. That was all.

A balding, wizened-looking old man was wiping his hands on his apron as he ambled through a doorway in the back and towards the counter. He seemed surprised to see her and looked her over curiously. Hermione resisted the urge to tug on her hood again. It didn’t mean anything sinister. Perhaps his interest was simply because she was alone or because the shops had just opened, and he wasn’t expecting any customers this early. 

“Good morning, miss. What can I get for you today?” he asked in a reedy voice.

Hermione stammered out the ingredients hurriedly, and he bowed, retreating back into the bowels of the pungent shop again. Walking to the window, she waited nervously for him to collect the potion ingredients she needed while she peered down the alley as if expecting a pack of Death Eaters or Ministry officials to be tailing her. She saw nothing, of course. The cobbled street outside was quite empty. 

Rolling her wand between her fingers, Hermione relaxed her tense shoulders and turned back as the proprietor shuffled back to the counter with her ingredients. That’s when she saw it out of the corner of her eye, a momentary flash of red light.

She froze. 

It was her imagination, a trick of the morning light reflecting off of something which had caught her eye, she assured herself. Ignoring the proprietor’s soft throat clearing, Hermione turned back to the window. She stepped closer for a better look so that her nose was almost pressed against the glass. Then her hand was on the door, yanking it open as she fled into the street. 

She’d seen it again, green this time.

Hood off, wand raised, her heart thumping frantically, she sprinted up the alley towards the bank, but then ducked as another streak of light flew over her head. Turning quickly towards the source, she saw something that made her heart stop. It was Harry, some fifty feet away, one Death Eater lying motionless at his feet in a pool of blood. But there were two others with wands raised. And then, to her horror, she saw Bellatrix. 

Stunned, her brain unable to comprehend the scene, Hermione stood there in shock. She was utterly frozen. This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. She’d stumbled into some kind of horrible nightmare. Harry was wrapped tightly around Bellatrix, apparently oblivious to what was going on around him. The two of them were struggling with each other as the other pair of Death Eaters fired spells, not at Harry, but back down the alleyway towards Hermione. Coming out of her stupor then, she quickly deflected one of the spells which was speeding towards her.

“HARRY!” she screamed as the second, a bolt of green light, narrowly missed her and instead, blew a chunk out of the wall behind her, showering her in bits of brick and mortar. 

Then she was rammed hard, knocked sideways by some invisible force, who she knew instinctively was Ron, running towards Harry, still under the Disillusionment charm. Her wand flew out of her hand at the impact, and she dropped to her knees, frantic to retrieve it. She recovered it quickly, but didn’t even have time to feel relief as her hand closed around it. She could hear Ron yelling curses, still running flat out.

“ _Confringo!_ ” she shouted, pointing her wand at the nearest Death Eater, whose clothing burst into flames. 

Screaming, he flailed his arms in a panic as his robes were set alight. Not even caring what she’d done, Hermione scrambled to her feet again just as Bellatrix began to turn.

“NOOOOO!” Hermione started to run, but she wasn’t going to make it in time. Bellatrix was twisting, Disapparating with Harry. And then, with a crack, they were gone. 

The Death Eater she’d cursed was still on his feet, screaming just as she was, but Hermione spared no thought for him, sprinting to the spot where she’d seen Harry disappear as if she could still catch them and bring him back. Hoping to undo the catastrophe that had just happened if she could just get there fast enough, even though she knew it was already too late, Hermione skidded to a halt where they’d been standing a moment before and spun around in a circle.

The last remaining Death Eater, staggering slightly and spitting blood, fired off one more spell, which flew wide to her right and shattered a shop window. Then, abandoning his injured or dying fellows to their own fates, he Apparated away.

“RON?” she screamed, stumbling around over broken glass and through pools of blood, shaking all over. But there was no answering response. In fact, all had gone quiet. Even the burning Death Eater’s screams were silenced now, though she didn’t yet register what that must mean. Her thoughts were only for Ron and Harry.

Feeling around on the ground for his body, her hands scrabbled over the cobbled stones, but she came up with only Harry’s invisibility cloak and the dead Death Eater’s wand. Oh, God!  Where was Ron?

~ . ~

 

 


	32. Fight and Flight

Harry smelled her before he even saw her. The faint trace of her perfume had been caught by the wind and driven into his sensitive nostrils. It cut straight through all the other odors assaulting his senses; from the damp, rotting litter in bins and the exhaust fumes from muggle cars on the streets beyond the alley, to the somewhat soured smell of the ragged people curled up under the eaves of abandoned storefronts to keep out of the rain that had fallen during the night. Harry could smell her coming in the air, and his mind was wiped suddenly blank, an odd fluttering beginning in his chest. 

The horribly familiar aroma of her sickened him. It made all the hairs on his arms stand on end as he went both cold and hot all over, filled in equal measure with adrenaline and fear. Turning his head slowly, trying to detect another indication of that scent, his eyes scanned the alley for a glimpse of her. That cloying fragrance was burned in his memory, mingled with the smell of sex and blood and sweat. They were smells that permeated his nightmares and were infused into his macabre fantasies. 

Then Harry was on his feet before his mind had even registered his body’s reaction. A sense of unreality upon him, he walked right past Ron unseen, still under the invisibility cloak. Like a hound seeking her spoor, his feet carried him forwards, propelling him towards his dreaded quarry. Harry was in a nightmare now. Walking towards it, unable to turn away as if he were in some kind of a trance, his silent footsteps brought him closer to the source of those nightmares. Then she turned a corner, coming into view, and his body began to tingle all over as if he were becoming electrically charged. A ball of swirling hatred was building in him like a storm gathering. 

Bellatrix wasn’t alone, but Harry only dimly registered this, his focus on her like a laser. She was cloaked, the hood pulled low over her head against the cold drizzle, her face in shadow, but it was her. Harry would know her anywhere. Remembering exactly what she looked like, what she felt like, Harry knew precisely how they fit together, and he craved it desperately. She looked familiar, smelled familiar, and his body reacted in carnal anticipation of that remembered pain and pleasure, his shaft thickening at the image. It made him sick, his overwhelming enmity and aching desire for her causing the bile to rise in his throat. But it wasn’t enough to make him raise his wand unseen under the cloak and strike her down, finally putting an end to his torment. 

No. That was too easy. That was the coward’s way out. Harry wanted to look her in the eyes. He wanted to see the fear register in them when she saw him and knew he had come for her. Knowing that the monster she’d created would finally have his chance to turn on her and attack, he wanted her to die with the knowledge that she would be reaping her just reward for the difficult lessons she’d instilled in him. Harry planned to demonstrate for her all he’d learned as her prized pupil. He intended for her to feel the pain of each of them before he took her life.

He visualized it in his mind: her body naked beneath him, her lips pulling back, her face going red when she came. And Harry would be strangling her when she did, buried deep inside her. She would enjoy it just as much as he did, but then he wouldn’t release his hands. He’d keep squeezing until her eyes bulged, until all the muscles she had wrapped around him contracted, squeezing him back, desperately fighting against him like he’d fought against her. Then, when her eyes began to dull and her tongue lolled out of her mouth, he’d finally release his held breath and scream with his own orgasm, pouring his black, poisoned hatred into her. And he wouldn’t stop screaming until her body stopped spasming in death and his finished spasming with the power of his revenge.

Harry came to a halt, letting the fury inside him continue to grow, shuddering all over with revulsion and arousal as he watched her approach. She didn’t know he was there, but her head turned slightly while she spoke to one of her companions as if she could smell him, too, or sense him somehow. 

The anger and lust at the sight of her in front of him was like a fog that had filled his head, obscuring all sane reason. He felt weirdly separate from himself, somehow outside of his own body. Grasping the cloak in his hand when she was feet from him, Harry pulled it off and let it drop. His trainers coming unglued from the ground, he stepped forward again, simultaneously raising his wand.

 

* * *

 

Ron was starting to get bored. He was still tired and hung over from last night, and he’d been sitting almost perfectly still against the brick wall of one of the shops in the alley for the better part of an hour. 

Hermione had clearly given them this desperately dull assignment as punishment for last night. There wasn’t anything to keep his mind occupied as he sat. Not a single patron had entered the bank, and the guards did nothing more interesting than shift in their stance or turn up the collar on their cloaks against the wind. Only the dampness of the wet street seeping into the seat of his jeans, his grumbling stomach, and the chilled morning air gusting through the alley kept him from nodding off.

He’d devoted probably the first thirty minutes after they’d settled themselves thinking about Hermione. Worrying if she was all right on her own and wondering if she was here yet, he spent more time watching the other end of the alley for her appearance than watching the bank, even though he knew it was too early for her to have arrived. Once it had started to drizzle, though, his mind had emptied and he’d fallen into a kind of stupor as his face and hands grew numb from cold. At least he had Harry for company in his misery. He was only a few feet away. But as Ron couldn’t see him or even chat with him to pass the time, he may as well have been alone. 

Longing for Harry’s cloak, Ron wished that he had it instead to protect him from the elements as another blast of air hit him in the face. But Harry had been blackmailed into being his accomplice last night so he supposed that it was only right for Harry to suffer less of the consequences.

“Christ, this sucks,” he growled in a harsh whisper, shoving his hands up his sleeves.

Expecting an admonishing, “Shhh” from Harry that didn’t come, Ron turned his head to look at the place where he knew Harry was sitting, even though he couldn’t see him. 

Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. Harry had to be exhausted, too, after last night. Plus, he had the added luxury of the cloak to keep him warm and dry as well as a full stomach. The prick was probably curled up over there having a nice kip, Ron thought irritably, leaving him to keep watch on the bank.

Just when he was thinking of scooting over closer to Harry to nudge him awake, or to at least try and use Harry’s incredible body heat for warmth, he heard something. Thinking of Hermione again, he whipped his head around just in time to see a group of people round the corner into view, their voices carrying to him on the wind from the far end of the alley. Then someone else, someone standing right in front of them suddenly revealed himself, pulling off an invisibility cloak. Someone with jet black hair.

His mouth dropping open in stunned dismay the instant he realized who it was, Ron jumped to his feet in terror just as the people surrounding Harry were all thrown backwards by his magic. All except the one whom Harry now had gripped by the throat.

Fuck! What the hell had happened? What was Harry doing? He was hundreds of feet away from Ron and outnumbered four to one.

The others were hurriedly getting back to their feet when Harry pointed his wand at the huge one still lying on the ground beside him, and Ron started running. Pulling his own wand, he fired a stunning curse at the figure nearest to Harry, but missed. The other turned towards Ron and volleyed back at their new, invisible attacker while the smallest, the one whom Harry had been previously strangling, was now engaged in a physical struggle with him.

Ron veered left to avoid another curse and answered with one of his own, but he didn’t even see if it hit its target as someone else rushed into the alley ahead of him; a woman, stumbling stupidly out into the middle of the fray as if to get a better look at what was causing the commotion. Then she screamed Harry’s name as curses flew towards her, and Ron knew with a sudden heart clenching panic who she was: Hermione.

Goddamn fucking hell! Could this get any worse?

Hermione had quickly deflected one curse and narrowly missed being hit by the other when Ron caught up to her. Ramming into her hard, he knocked her sideways and out of the line of fire. But he didn’t even slow down. He kept running, firing spells indiscriminately. He had to get to Harry, who was still entwined with the third Death Eater.

When he was only a few feet away, they began to turn, starting to Apparate, and Ron saw, in abject horror, the identity of the Death Eater with Harry. Diving, Ron just managed to grab onto Bellatrix’s boot as they all disappeared together.

Thrown clear when they landed, his face and stomach smacked hard into the smooth polished wood floor and knocked the breath out of him. Ron bounced once as he rolled away. He heard the splintering of wood like the snapping of a twig, and he knew it was his wand as he landed on it again, his arm twisting underneath him and wrenching it from his grip while he spun across the floor. 

With a dull thud and a throbbing pain in his head, his momentum abruptly stopped as he collided against something with tremendous force. Instantly, his vision went black.

* * *

 

Harry’s knees buckled when they landed, and he lost his hold on Bellatrix’s arm as he staggered backwards, his lungs re-inflating from the sudden, unexpected Apparition. It was enough time for her to press the mark on her left forearm to summon her Master, which he’d been trying to prevent her doing in the alley.

His forehead burst immediately with a pain like fire, and his vision swam as she shrieked in triumph. The agony of it caused him to clutch his head as he was immediately plunged into Voldemort’s mind. But her victory was short lived once she realized he’d come away with her wand.

Harry started laughing through the searing pain in his scar. It sounded maniacal in his own ears as he stepped close to Bellatrix again and grasped her around the throat with his other hand. Pushing her against the wall with his body, he ground his hips against her.

His mind was now partly his own and partly Voldemort’s, the two bleeding together, his vision doubling, alternating between the two realities. One moment, he was in a dark cell, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away, staring at a sleeping, skeletal old man curled up under a thin blanket. The next, he was staring into the black, heavy lidded eyes of the woman Harry hated more than anyone in this world. 

Sneering viciously at her, the hot ball of rage still swirling and churning inside him, Harry leaned close to her, forcing her head to the side with the grip he had on her neck. “Oh, I’m so sorry. But it looks like your master’s awfully busy at the moment. Seems he won’t be arriving in time to save you,” he whispered menacingly in her ear. “And he did like you best. Better than your sister, anyway.” Harry pressed his hips into her again, rubbing his erection against her. “I was forced to witness a little sampling of it last night, and Cissy fucks like a dead fish, doesn’t she? But not you, no. You’re his favorite whore, aren’t you, Bellatrix? He doesn’t have to curse you to get what he wants, does he? Pity, he’ll be so disappointed when he arrives to find you dead.”

He’d lied to Ron last night. He hadn’t just had a bad dream. Harry had made that part up, which wasn’t difficult because the nightmare he’d shared with Ron was a constantly recurring one. Instead, he’d involuntarily visited Voldemort’s mind again in his sleep. And what he’d seen, what he’d been forced to experience, made him flee to the bathroom either to be sick or to cut himself open to let the disgust and desire bleed out of him. But it was back now in full force, and he was back in Voldemort’s mind again, too, sharing his vile thoughts once more. Only it was his body crushed up against hers this time, and it was his own desire that was flooding through him. Voldemort’s feelings of hatred and his own were blending together, amplifying them inside Harry head, building inside him like a nuclear reaction.

“Did you like it when he spoke in Parsletongue to you last night while you were sucking his dick? Tell me, is it covered in scales like a snake?” he asked venomously. “I couldn’t tell with it all the way down your throat like that, but I bet it is.”

Her eyes went wide in surprise at his words. Harry bared his teeth at her, trying to yank open her robes with the hand still clutching both their wands while tightening his hold on her throat at the same time as she kicked frantically, struggling to free herself. 

“And when he uses that forked tongue of his on you, does it make you come? Do you scream for him, Bellatrix, like you’re going to scream for me? Because I’m going to fuck you until you bleed. Until you’re begging me to stop just like I begged you. But don’t worry, I promise I’ll show you just as much mercy.”

One of her arms he held pinned down beside her with his body, but she reached up with the other and clawed at his face, trying to take out his eye with her taloned nails. Snarling, Harry yanked her forward by the throat and then slammed her back against the wall again, momentarily stunning her.

“What’s the matter? You don’t want to play with me anymore?” he asked, panting into her face, his magic crackling threateningly in the air around them. “But I thought you wanted more time with me, Bellatrix. Didn’t you have more things you wanted to teach me? Well, I’m here to learn.”

Growling savagely, Harry let her struggle against him for just a moment, clawing at his hand now as she fought to breathe before he forced her head to the side again and bit down, sinking his teeth into the flesh of her ear as she had once done his, and she let out a howl of rage.

* * *

 

Hermione appeared in the dungeon corridor with a loud crack. Clutching Dobby’s hand under Harry’s cloak, she immediately froze in complete terror, her mind and body paralyzed at finding herself back in this terrible place again.

She let out a tiny whimper of fear which Dobby echoed, his small hand trembling in hers. And it was possibly that which finally brought her to her senses, the realization and relief that she wasn’t alone strengthening her resolve and steadying her shaking limbs. Ron and Harry were here somewhere. She knew it, and she had to pull herself together if she was going to get them out.

Standing stock still a moment longer, she waited to see if their appearance had been detected by anyone in the house, listening for any sort of alarms or defensive enchantments which might have been set off when they materialized. When she felt sure their arrival had gone unnoticed, she let out her breath and quickly knelt down beside Dobby.

“Listen to me, Dobby, I don’t know where they might be. I’ll need you to help me search for them. All right?”

With his eyes wide and round, the little elf nodded vigorously, his bat-like ears flapping as he squeaked in agreement. Nodding herself, she stood again, praying for courage.

Doors lined both walls of the low-ceilinged corridor, and Hermione stared around at them uncertainly. She didn’t know what they might contain, or who, but the quiet stillness was beginning to feel ominous. Her fear of that tortuous, impenetrable curtain of silence was starting to suffocate her, making her heart pound and her hands shake. Taking in quick breath, Hermione held it and clenched her fists until the panic eased.

“We’re going to have to try all the doors,” she told Dobby in a whisper, trying to sound more confident than she felt as she crept towards the nearest one. Pressing her ear against it, she listened and hearing nothing, tried the handle. It was locked, of course.

Tapping her wand against the knob, Hermione performed the charm wordlessly, and the handle clicked. The hinges creaked as the weight of the door caused it to open inward a few inches, and she cringed at the sound. She hesitated a moment, wand raised. But when no one immediately rushed out to attack her, she slowly pushed the heavy door wide with her foot.

The room was empty, and the relief combined with the renewed rush of anxiety and adrenaline that filled her made her suddenly light-headed and weak in the knees. The second room they came to was also empty but for an old wooden table and a single chair. On the third try, they had success. 

When the door swung open, Hermione saw a severely beaten goblin and an emaciated old man lying on the dirt floor, chained by the ankles to the wall. Letting out a little gasp of horror in sudden recognition, Hermione rushed into the room.

 

* * *

 

Ron swam back into consciousness to find himself staring up at the underside of a large dining room table. There was a stabbing pain in his head, and his vision was obscured in one eye. He blinked several times to clear it. When that didn’t help, he reached up to wipe off whatever it was that was preventing it working properly. His hand came away with something warm and sticky coating his fingers. Bewildered, he stared at them. They were red, and it finally dawned on him that the substance was blood, his blood. He looked back up at the table again in confusion, his head throbbing. None of this made any sense. Nothing here was familiar to him. He had no idea where he was, why he was lying bleeding on the floor, or how he’d come to find himself there. 

Rolling onto his side, he tried to prop himself up on his elbow to clear the cobwebs from his sluggish brain, and his vision tunneled again suddenly. All sound had been muffled, and tiny stars twinkled before him for a moment as he was hit with a powerful wave of vertigo.

He must have been knocked stupid and had a concussion, or something, he thought dimly.

When his ears had stopped ringing and his vision had finally cleared again, Ron looked up. What he saw then brought everything back to him with the sudden clarity of a torch being lit in the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Once she’d cleared the door, Hermione realized that there were others in the room, too. Dean and Luna, standing chained to the opposite wall like she and Ron had been. One of Dean’s eyes was swollen shut and Luna’s lip was split, but otherwise they seemed all right, in better shape than Griphook or Mr. Ollivander, at any rate. Pulling off the cloak, she rushed up to them, Dobby at her heels.

“Dean, Luna! Are you all right?” she asked breathlessly. “Where are Harry and Ron? Where has she taken them?”

“Hermione?” Luna asked, her protuberant eyes squinting to peer at Hermione. “Is that you?”

“Yes, yes, Luna. Harry and Ron, do you know where they are? Have you seen them?”

“Oh, no,” she replied, looking crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Have they been caught, too? By Snatchers, like Dean and Griphook?”

“Yes… I mean no, Luna, not by Snatchers, no. Bellatrix Lestrange brought them here. Please, I have to find them,” Hermione pleaded in increasing desperation.

“Darn it. I didn’t want you three to be caught,” Luna said sadly, gazing at Hermione sympathetically. “She brought me here, too, from Azkaban and tried to make me tell her where you all were. And I told her I didn’t know, but she didn’t believe me. Then they brought Dean, but he didn’t know either,” she explained in that slightly mad way, as if they had all the time in the world, as if Hermione had just popped in for a spot of afternoon tea and a serving of the latest gossip. “I guess somebody else must have told her, but I don’t know who would have done. So are you here to rescue them?” Luna asked curiously.“Is that your disguise, then?”

Unable to formulate answers to her absurd questions, Hermione stared at her momentarily dumbfounded.

“Do us a favor, Luna, and shut up,” Dean interjected wearily. “Hermione, how ’bout getting us down, eh?”

Hermione turned to him in relief, latching onto the only person with any semblance of sanity.  “Yes… right!”

 

* * *

 

Ron stared stupidly at the scene in front of him. He was in shock, too stunned by what he was seeing to do anything else. Harry and Bellatrix were either fighting or fucking. Ron really couldn’t tell which. It looked like both, actually. What it didn’t look like, was that his fear of Harry falling to pieces at the sight of her was something he needed to have concerned himself with, at least not in the way he thought. Harry had lost his shit all right, but in a completely different and much more frightening way than Ron could have imagined.

Harry had her back pressed up against the wall, and he was strangling the life out of her. Bellatrix had her legs wrapped around his waist and Harry was grinding against her in a wild frenzy, growling like an animal as he humped her into the wall. Then Ron realized that Narcissa and Wormtail were there too, attempting to break through the shield Harry has apparently cast around himself to hold them off. 

The world finally resolving itself again completely in Ron’s bruised brain, he sat up fully then, searching for his wand. His eyes fell upon the broken pieces, and before he could even formulate a new plan of attack, Wormtail, realizing apparently that Ron wasn’t dead, seized him by the throat and pulled him to his feet. 

“Release my sister!” Narcissa commanded. 

Harry laughed. It was a hoarse, humorless, terrifying laugh that Ron had never heard come out of his mouth before as he slowly turned his head to look at Narcissa. There was nothing but pure hatred on his face.

“No.  I made your sister a promise, you see,” he answered breathlessly, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. “I swore to her that I would kill her, and I’m here to deliver on that promise.”

Yup, Ron thought stupidly. It looked like he could file ‘Harry going all wobbly when he saw Bellatrix’ under ‘not so much.’

“Drop your wand and release her or your friend dies!” Draco’s mother demanded sharply and turned her wand on Ron.

 

* * *

 

“If they questioned both of you for Harry’s whereabouts and got nothing, then why did they injure Griphook so badly? What were they trying to torture out of him?” Hermione asked, bewildered, kneeling next to the goblin after releasing all of them from the chains binding them. “Forgive me, but neither of you is in anywhere near the shape he’s in.”

“Well partly ‘cause he’s a goblin, I guess,” answered Dean, rubbing his raw wrists. “And partly ‘cause ole Griphook here can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“What do you mean?”

“He kept taunting her. Laughing and telling her that Potter was probably right here amongst them. Said that the Death Eaters were so bad at recognizing things for what they truly were, they wouldn’t be able to tell one boy wizard from another.”

“What in the world would he do that for?”

“I don’t know really. Who can understand goblins? I’ve been on the run, living with him for months and I still don’t. Maybe he was trying to keep them off the rest of us,” he suggested. 

Looking back at the goblin, Hermione shook her head in sympathy, but she couldn’t do anything for him here. “Help me get him up. We’ve got to get you all out of here. Dobby,” she called. The tiny elf trotted up to her. “Can you take them all?”

Dobby nodded.

Staring into his enormous green eyes, Hermione wracked her brains trying to decide where to have him take them. Not to Madame Pomfrey at Hogwarts, though they certainly needed the infirmary. That wasn’t safe. Not to Muriel’s. That was too crowded. Plus, she’d never been there before and didn’t know the location. Number Twelve had plenty of space, and she was the secret keeper, but she didn’t want to bring them there, either. She still had no idea where Harry and Ron were or what condition they might be in when she found them. Then the answer came to her.

“All right. Take them to Bill and Fleur’s on the outskirts of Tinworth, Dobby, and then come straight back.”

“Hermione, we can’t leave you,” Dean protested.

“Yes, we want to help,” Luna agreed.

“Neither of you have wands, and we can’t all fit under the cloak, and these two need medical attention,” Hermione said, nodding towards Mr. Ollivander and the goblin. “It will be much safer if I continue searching alone.”

“Luna can go with them. I’ll stay with you. I may not have a wand, but I can still help,” Dean argued.

The offer was certainly tempting. Hermione didn’t want to be on her own here, especially without Dobby, but she shook her head. “Dean, Luna can’t manage these two on her own. She’ll need help. Go with her. We’ll follow, don’t worry. Harry, Ron, and I will meet you at Shell Cottage. Now go, quickly,” she beseeched them.

Dean stared at her, frowning, but then finally nodded. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t just leave without rescuing them, but she was wasting time here while who knew what was happening with Ron and Harry.

After sending a quick Patronus message to Bill to warn him of their arrival, she donned the invisibility cloak once more as the others vanished with a loud crack.

 

* * *

 

Something had snapped within Harry with the heat like fire from the pain in his head at Voldemort’s fury. The toothless old man had not shown the slightest fear of Voldemort. Grindelwald had asked for death, welcomed it even. He’d lied to Voldemort about ever owning the wand, taunted him for seeking it. And Voldemort had finally been goaded into killing him without learning of its location. The rage he’d felt then at his failure only added to Harry’s.

Other people had rushed into the room as Bellatrix had started growing weak in his grip, losing the battle against him. But so near to his goal was he, that Harry could not let them distract him from it. Voldemort was coming now, too, but there was no way in hell Harry was going to allow anyone to rob him of her death. Not when he was so close to having his revenge. 

“ _Stupefy_!” someone shouted.

Harry instantly reacted. The coiled, burning rage that had been building in his chest finally exploded out around him, shielding him from the curse.

Spells rained down on him, but so strong was his protective shield, his own will, that none penetrated it. And then, just as suddenly as the attack on him began, it ended again.

“Release my sister!” Narcissa commanded.

Harry laughed, turning his head to glare at her. “No. I made your sister a promise, you see,” he replied. “I swore to her that I would kill her, and I’m here to deliver on that promise.”

“Drop your wand and release her, or your friend dies!” she demanded again and pointed her wand at something behind him.

Harry turned fully then, pulling a limp and almost unconscious Bellatrix around with him to face Narcissa. His eyes followed the arm she held straight out from her body, and he found Ron at the other end of her wand. 

Ron looked dazed, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig from a gash in his forehead. Gripping the silver hand, which was tightening around his neck with both of his own, Ron was struggling, trying to prize the metal fingers off his throat to breathe.

Jolting him out of the molten rage into which he’d been swallowed, Harry stared at him in shock. He didn’t even know Ron was here. He didn’t know where they were, or even how they’d come to be here. It was as if he were coming out of a dream or falling into a nightmare. He looked around, surprised to find himself in the middle of bizarre hostage negations with Draco’s mother in the dining room of her home.

“Don’t you dare, Harry. If you do it, I’ll kill you myself!” Ron gasped and then choked as Wormtail’s grip tightened around his throat, silencing him.

As if he was seeing for the first time, Harry suddenly realized what he was doing. He felt a rush of horror at himself. Then Ron’s eyes bulged as his windpipe was being crushed, and Harry’s vision went red with fury. 

“Are you really going to kill my best friend, Peter?” Harry snarled, his nostrils flaring. “Like you killed yours? You’re truly willing to just take Ron’s life, like he means nothing to you? After he cared of you for all those years? You piece of shit!” His whole body vibrating with outrage, Harry took a threatening step closer. Dragging Bellatrix with him by the hand he now had wound tightly in her hair, he pointed both his and Bellatrix’s wands at Peter. “You killed my parents, but I saved your life, you bastard! Has your master ever once shown you any mercy? Has he?” he shouted. “Let him go, Wormtail. You owe me!”

Pettigrew’s hand relaxed for a fraction of a second on Ron’s throat as he stared in fearful shock at Harry with those beady, watery eyes. Then they opened wide in terror as the silver hand slowly released Ron, apparently of its own accord, and slowly wrapped itself around his own throat.

Once freed, Ron staggered away from him, gasping and clutching his throat. Then they all watched in horrified fascination as Peter’s face began to turn purple, and he crumpled to the floor. All of them were frozen at the bizarre scene with Narcissa’s wand pointed at Ron and the two Harry was holding pointing at Pettigrew.

“You deserve this, Peter. You know that, don’t you? You deserve to die by your own hand for what you’ve done,” Harry told the man now thrashing on the floor.

A single tear leaked out of Peter’s swollen face at Harry’s words. He didn’t know if it was actual remorse, or if it had just been squeezed out of his dying body, but Harry felt no pity for him. Turning slowly to Draco’s mother then, Harry leveled her with his gaze. Her eyes were wide with fear as if she believed that he had used some kind of mind controlling dark magic she’d never seen before to cause Wormtail to strangle himself, fearing what he might do to her after seeing him with her sister. Before they could do more than size each other up, however, a door banged open and Hermione came bursting up the stairs, wild hatred in her eyes.

“You’ll never touch him again!” Hermione screamed, pointing her wand first at Bellatrix before spinning quickly to aim at Draco’s mother. “ _Expelliarmus_!” she shouted.

Narcissa’s wand flew out of her hands just as Bellatrix sprang unexpectedly to life. Turning in Harry’s grip, she pulled something from her boot. He saw a flash of silver, and he leapt backwards as her hand arced toward him. He missed the worst of it as the short blade cut across his thigh, slicing through the denim fabric and into his skin. But it wasn’t deep. She hadn’t managed to cut through muscle and lay his leg open, or disembowel him, which had no doubt been her intent. The wound was very high on his thigh, however, as if she’d attempted to sever his balls. But before he could react, Hermione had yanked him by the arm just as Dobby appeared in front of them and grasped Harry’s other hand. 

Harry saw another flash of silver, heard Bellatrix scream in fury as they were all pulled away into the compressing darkness.

 

* * *

 

Hermione’s face was pressed into wet sand, her limbs thrown out like a doll tossed away by a thoughtless child. Disoriented and winded from the hard landing of Dobby’s wild Apparition, she fought to untangle herself from her damp robes as rain pelted against her face.  She was on hands and knees when she heard someone screaming. 

“HELP ME!”

Gripping the wands still clutched in her fist, she staggered up, twirling on the spot. She wiped furiously at the wet strands of hair sticking to her face, searching around for the source, fearful of whatever new threat was upon them. 

It was Harry, on his knees thirty feet from her. Bundled in his jacket, he cradled something in his arms, yet she only barely registered it because his shirt was covered in blood. Hermione felt her own leave her face at the sight of it. She tried to take a step forward, but terror made her knees threaten to buckle underneath her.

“NOOOOO!” Harry wailed. “Oh, God, no! Dobby, please don’t die.” 

It was the tiny elf’s body that Harry was clutching to his chest, she realized then. She stood frozen in horrified shock, unable to comprehend the truth of what she was seeing, to make sense of the dreadful scene. 

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not to Dobby. Not to Harry. Oh, God! What had she done?

Ron was stumbling towards Harry, who had laid the bundle gently down, folding the jacket over Dobby’s body to protect it from the rain. Shaking his head slowly, Harry stared at it in numb disbelief, his body trembling with grief. Hermione’s legs finally felt as if they would support her, and she took a wobbly step, slowly propelling herself forward.

“Harry,” Ron called hoarsely.

Harry looked up at him helplessly, his face a mask of misery. Holding out his hand to Ron, Harry opened his palm as if seeking confirmation of what was in it, and something silver fell onto the wet sand. Hermione saw that it was a knife, Bellatrix’s knife, the blade covered in blood.

Ron took another staggering step towards Harry, his arms outstretched, but then someone shouted his name. It was Bill. Hermione glanced up to see him running down the hill towards them, a terrified look on his face. Fleur was right behind him, her silvery blond hair flying like a banner behind her as they raced for the shore.

Ron turned towards the sound, and Harry’s eyes found hers. The look Hermione saw in them made her legs suddenly move faster. His eyes were full of tears, and they had that same look in them she’d seen in Ron’s bedroom the last time they’d fled Malfoy Manor.

“Harry! No!” she cried as he staggered to his feet. 

But the sight of Bill and Fleur streaking towards them, wands raised had caused him to panic. He turned quickly on the spot before Ron or she could reach him and vanished.

~ . ~

 


	33. I Need You Now

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Hermione heard Harry bellowing as she sprinted up the stairs. The rage in his voice made her legs pump harder in haste. Running towards the sound, her thighs burned with the effort. 

Jesus, why did this house have so many damn stairs? 

Bill and Fleur had reached them just as Harry vanished, demanding to know what the hell was going on, and asking how badly they were hurt while Ron screamed curses at the man who could no longer hear him. Furious, Ron turned to face them and frantically demanded one of their wands, refusing to answer his brother’s questions and slapping Fleur’s hand away impatiently when she attempted to tend his bleeding forehead. 

Hermione quickly handed him the one she’d caught after disarming Narcissa without asking what had happened to his own. Then Ron went after Harry, insisting she stay behind. But the hell with that! She’d stayed only long enough to carefully pick up Dobby’s body, still wrapped protectively in Harry’s jacket. Handing the bundle to Fleur, Hermione gave a quick explanation and an inadequate apology to the bewildered couple. Then she followed. There was nothing she could do for Dobby, anymore. And she couldn’t allow herself to think on it right now, either, to lay blame or even truly comprehend the horror of his death. It was Harry that needed their help now.

Having seen the look in Harry’s eyes, Hermione knew instantly where he was going and what he planned to do. She would not, could not leave it to Ron to try and prevent it.

Struggling to breathe, panting heavily from exhaustion and panic, she gripped the banister to help pull herself up. Impeding her in her effort were all the decapitated heads of the house elves, which had been ripped from the walls. They littered the stairs, and she tripped and stumbled over them as she ran.

“YOU SWORE! You swore you wouldn’t do this,” Ron shouted as she reached the landing. Throwing out an arm, she gripped the door frame of Sirius’ bedroom, pivoting into the room. But she stopped short at Ron’s next words. “Hermione, FREEZE! Don’t you dare come in here! You hear me? Don’t you dare!”

Hesitating only a second at the fear in Ron’s voice, gripping the wand in her fist, still breathing hard and clutching at a stitch in her side, she took a step forward and then another. Ignoring his warning, she walked slowly towards the bathroom, towards whatever was happening inside it.

The bathroom door was flung open and hung drunkenly off its hinges. When she stepped slowly, cautiously into the room, she saw that the mirror above the sink was smashed, which added to the appearance that some kind of explosion had occurred inside. Bloody shards littered the floor and the sink basin. Then she saw Harry. He was stripped to the waist, the knuckles on his right hand bloody. The fingers on both hands were also bloody, the tips shredded from where he’d pried pieces from the mirror. Holding one particularly large triangular shard in his hand like a weapon, Harry pressed the sharp edge into the skin of his right arm.

“It’s in there!” he wailed, his eyes pleading with Ron. “I’ve got to get it out of me.” 

There was madness in those eyes, and his whole body was wracked with tremors as he held Ron off with the threat to harm himself further. Both of Ron’s hands were raised, trying to be as non-threatening as possible to calm Harry down, trying to reason with their hysterical friend. The glass shard pierced the skin as Harry’s hands trembled, forcing the tip in deeply.

“Stop this. Harry, just stop,” Ron said in a voice of forced calm, reaching out again slowly to take Harry’s arm. “Give it to me.”

“You don’t understand. It’ll eat me alive if I don’t,” Harry cried, backing farther away from Ron and showing them his already savaged arms, as if they could see what was afflicting him. “Please, help me get it out. I have to get it out!” He was keening as he begged them, the glass cutting into the skin again.

“Harry… there’s nothing in there,” Hermione tried to convince him from the doorway, holding both her hands out to him now, too, like Ron. Terrified of what she was seeing, of what he was doing to himself, she tried to calm him down, but he was shaking his head already as he gripped the glass more firmly.

“NO! You don’t understand! The blackness, it’s filling me up. You see? You see it?” he screamed, showing her his bleeding arms again. “Oh, God! It’s everywhere!”

Abandoning the wedge of glass, he let it fall to the floor as she edged past Ron into the tiny room. Harry began clawing frantically at his skin then, whimpering and tearing at the flesh of his arm and at his chest with his bleeding fingers as if he were trying to pull his old wounds back open.

“Please stop, please, Harry,” she begged him in horrified alarm. Trying to grab his arms, she attempted to drag them away from the deep gouges he was making in his own skin, but he slapped her hands away, growling savagely at her. 

“I’m death. I’m the bringer of death, and it’s coming for you,” Harry said suddenly, the sound of his voice terrifying, his face going strangely blank. “I’ve been leading you both to it from the moment we met.”

“Shut up!” Ron snapped.

“No you haven’t, Harry,” she argued. “You’ve always saved us. You’ve saved everyone you possibly could.”

He shook his head. “No one can live while I survive.”

Harry’s words had made Hermione go cold all over. It wasn’t fear that his words were true, but that he believed them. In the madness of grief that had gripped him, he believed that what he was saying was true, that he was the cause of all the death around him. And the weight of that belief was suffocating him.

Tears streamed from her eyes as Hermione stared at him, stared at a man she hardly recognized. But Harry was in there somewhere behind those beautiful eyes that were now dull with shock. The boy she loved was still trapped inside, terrified and alone. If he would only let them help him, if he’d just reach out his hand to her or Ron and let them pull him back.

“You need to calm down,” she urged, stepping closer again. Undeterred by his wild aggression, she was determined to stop him hurting himself further, to quell the frenzied madness building in him. But Harry looked panicked with both of them closing in on him and attempting to take hold of him. 

Without warning, he suddenly lunged at her. Shoving her hard in the chest, he tried to bolt past her out of the bathroom. Only Ron was too fast for him. He seized Harry by the arms as the frightened wizard struggled for the door. 

Kicking out at Ron, trying to twist out of his grip, Harry howled in rage. “Let go of me!” he demanded, his teeth bared. His face was blotched red with fury as he yanked on his blood-slicked arms, trying to wrest himself free, but Ron held on tight. 

They struggled, Ron trying to rein Harry in closer to him, to gain control of his thrashing body, which was sliding through Ron’s grip like an eel. 

“It’s taking me!” Harry shouted. “It’s going to take you, too. Both of you… let me go!”

“What is, Harry?” she asked, utterly bewildered.

“The Dementor!” he cried. “The wolf. They’re inside me. They’re trying to get out!”

 “Oh, Harry,” she said, heartbroken. “There’s not… there isn’t any…” Hermione was crying, watching Harry come completely undone, watching as he tried to tear himself apart while Ron held onto him. He was wailing in agony, so totally devastated at Dobby’s loss. Hermione had never seen him so manic, so dangerously out of control.

“Please, help me.” Sobbing and terrified, he was still struggling against Ron, who had his arms around Harry’s chest now, gripping him by the wrists, trying to hold him up, trying to hold him together and keep him from harming himself further. “Please,” he begged, completely inconsolable. “I need help… I need you.” 

“Harry… I think you need to take a small dose of the calming draught,” she told him then, not knowing what else to do to ease his hysteria. “You’re hurting yourself. Please?”

“Nooooo!” he wailed, sobbing in earnest now, trying again to jerk his slippery arms out of Ron’s grip. “No… No! Don’t do that to me! I’m sorry. Please don’t make me take it. I’m sorry,” he pleaded, fighting harder in Ron’s iron grip again.

They battled, Ron attempting to get a better grip on his smaller opponent, to physically overpower him. Holding Harry against him, Ron pinned Harry’s arms across his chest, trying to smother his struggling, as fear now joining the volatile mix of emotions in Harry’s eyes. 

“You said you’d never make me take it again!” Harry accused, angry now, panting in exhaustion as Ron held him. 

Then, without warning, she was suddenly knocked backwards into the wall by the force of Harry’s magic, her head smacking hard against the painted plaster so that she saw stars. In an attempted to throw Ron off him, a wave of energy like an Impediment jinx had burst from him. Ron staggered as well, but he didn’t release Harry. Yanking the struggling wizard backwards along with him, Ron held on as the back of his head and body collided with force against the opposite wall, rattling the door that hung precariously from its hinges.

“STOP IT!” Ron roared furiously, gripping Harry tighter. “Hermione, get the fuck out of here. Now!”

“No. I’m not going!” she insisted, shaking her head, stunned and frightened, but standing her ground. There was no way she was leaving Ron in here alone with Harry. “Please, Harry,” she begged once more, tears rolling down her own cheeks. “You’re scaring me. Please, just let us help you. We love you.”

“You’re a liar!” he spat, his whole body trembling with rage. “You don’t love me. You just want to control me. You want what they all wanted from me, don’t you? I know what that potion is. I know what it’ll make me do!” Then instantly, he switched tactics, his body no longer thrashing against Ron, but rubbing against him suggestively, the muscles in his arms going slack in Ron’s grip. “Is this what you want? You’re pissed you didn’t get your turn?” Harry growled angrily rolling his hips against Ron. 

Then he turned so fast that Ron couldn’t hold him. Shoving Ron hard against the bathroom wall again, Harry pressed against him. “You want me to give you what she offered you.  Is that it? Want me to show you what Snape taught me? Is that what you want?” he snarled.

Now he was tugging on Ron’s jeans, his hands working furiously to undo the fly as Ron spluttered, too stunned to defend himself against this new attack while Hermione shrank back against the sink, terrified. 

“You don’t even have to bother with the potion, I’d be glad to,” he sneered. Then he was on his knees in front of Ron before Ron could even react.

“Fuck!” Ron yelled as Harry engulfed him. 

Taking Ron into his mouth and burying his nose in his crotch, Harry’s hands pressed against Ron’s hips, pinning him to the wall.

“Oh, my, God!” Ron groaned, his mouth falling open as he tried to push Harry off of him, but Harry wouldn’t budge. 

Growling around his cock, his thumbs digging into Ron’s hips, Harry bobbed his head, trying to bring Ron to full arousal. He slid Ron in and out of his mouth, his lips stretched around Ron’s thickening shaft while Hermione gaped at the scene in front of her from the corner in which she was still cowering. 

“Harry, stop,” Ron panted as Harry continued his furious assault. “Stop this!” he shouted, finally managing to shove Harry off him.

“Then what do you want from me?” Harry bellowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still on his knees in front of Ron. “What? You want more than that? You want to fuck me? Is that it?” he asked, getting to his feet and fumbling now with his own trousers.

“No. Harry, stop it. We just want—”

“What’s the matter? Hermione’s not enough for you?” Harry sneered, trying to kick off his slashed trousers, which were sticking to his leg with coagulated blood from the wound on his thigh. “Can’t she satisfy your needs? Are they so insatiable that you need more than one lover?  Or maybe she won’t do the depraved things you want to do to her? No, that can’t be it. She’s okay with sharing herself, isn’t she? Fine with you wanting to watch another man fuck her, isn’t she? You liked watching what I did—”

In fury, Ron had balled up his fist, and before Harry could react to defend himself, Ron swung, smashing it into Harry’s face with a sickening thud. The knuckles connected with his mouth with so much force, that Harry’s head snapped back. Hermione shrieked as Harry’s head and body swiveled violently sideways from the impact, his teeth crashing together. 

The momentum of Ron’s punch sent Harry reeling backwards. His feet tangled in his own pant legs, he went down, arms flailing. The backs of his calves hit the toilet, and he fell onto it, his back slamming hard against the corner of the sink. 

Harry grunted in pain.  The force had knocked the wind out of him, but fueled with adrenaline, he jumped back up again as if he didn’t feel a thing, as if the blow hadn’t almost dislocated his jaw and punctured a lung while Hermione continued to cower frozen against the wall. Her mouth hung open in shock at the violence that had erupted around her.

 

* * *

 

“YEEESSSS!” Harry hissed. Pleased that his deliberate provocation of Ron had finally yielded the result he wanted because what he needed was a fight, an all-out brawl that would leave him bloody and dazed. 

The blackness in is veins was thick like tar. His heart was struggling to pump it through his arteries as it attempted to spread the poison to every part of his body so it could take root there and grow. And if he couldn’t cut the infection out, then Ron could beat it out of him, until his body turned black from the blows, but his blood flowed pure, until it poured red from his mouth, from his nose and ears. 

He wanted Ron so enraged with him that he would attack him without mercy. So he’d used his best weapon, his words, against the one target he knew Ron wouldn’t be able to resist. Harry wanted to be punished, desperate for the pain to numb him against the greater one shattering his insides. He needed it to atone for the horror of what he’d done, to smother the aching desire that was still raging in him from his furious attempt to fuck Bellatrix. And Ron was just the man to do it. 

His head ached with the struggle to block out the fury Voldemort was unleashing back at the Malfoy’s, and it had doubled with the rattling his brain had just sustained from the blow Ron had delivered. Blood dripped from his mouth now where Ron had split his lip, and Harry shot forward, wanting more. Grabbing Ron by the face, Harry pulled them together so forcefully that their teeth clacked together. His torn and bloody lips slid over Ron’s as he pressed against him. Grinding his nearly nude body against Ron, Harry forced his tongue into Ron’s mouth.

In a complete frenzy, he clawed at Ron, pulling at his hips as if he were trying to crawl inside him. Then Ron moaned around his invading tongue when Harry rubbed their erections together. Responding with a satisfied growl, Harry turned quickly to grip the bathroom sink as he braced his legs apart. His wild eyes stared into Hermione’s through the shattered mirror. Blood was smeared across his face, his chest, and his arms. He looked utterly deranged.

“Do it, then,” he growled. “Do it, Ron!”

“Harry, I can’t. It’ll hurt.”

“It’s supposed to hurt!” he spat angrily, his teeth stained red from his torn lips as he bared them at Hermione. His knuckles went white as he gripped the counter and widened his stance, preparing for the painful invasion. 

“No, it’s not, mate. It isn’t,” Ron said sadly.

“I need it to hurt, Ron, please,” he begged, pleading for relief as he pushed back into Ron’s hips. His body was straining, and if he couldn’t have the knife, he’d take what remained available to him before he was totally consumed with the blackness and went completely insane.

“No, Harry, I can’t. I won’t hurt you like that… even if you’re asking me to.”

Harry roared in frustration. And then they all gasped at the sudden warm wetness between their legs as he had wandlessly cast a lubricating charm on all three of them. “There! Now do it, Ron. Fuck me,” Harry ordered as Ron yelped in stunned surprise.

“What the hell, Harry?”

“I don’t know how to do it any other way!” he shouted, furious at the delay, his body screaming, desperate for the punishment, for the release. “This is the only way I know how!”

“Then let me show you, mate,” Ron said quietly, soothingly, reaching out a hand to stroke down Harry’s spine. “Let me and Hermione show you how.”

“Noooo.” Harry shook his head violently. He didn’t want comfort, didn’t deserve it. What he needed was something so much blacker than that. Harry was desperate to incite and act so hateful, that it would be just as ugly as what was inside him, something that could purge him of it, or allow him to drown in it. “Please… help me,” he pleaded, shaking uncontrollably. “You said you would help me.”

Ron growled in frustration. “Damn it. I’m trying!” Leaning down, Ron wrapped his arms around Harry’s heaving chest and pulled Harry to him then, standing them both upright and bracing Harry’s back against his chest. 

As Harry stepped backwards with him, Ron slid his arms up and around the back of Harry’s neck, clasping his fingers together behind Harry’s head, trapping his arms, holding them back away from his chest in a full nelson before Harry even realized what was happening. Then Ron pressed his lips against the shell of Harry’s ear. “It’s not gonna go down like that, Harry,” Ron breathed, causing Harry to shudder. “We’re only trying to help you.”

Then Ron motioned with his head for Hermione to come closer. She hesitated only a second at the feral look on Harry’s bloodstained face before she complied. Stepping in close, she slid her hands to his waist as Harry growled at her like a wild animal, arching his back in an attempt to pull out of Ron’s hold. Terrified of having her involved in this, Harry was suddenly ashamed of having her witness anymore of his complete degradation.

“Shhhh,” they both whispered to him as she stroked his face, trying to calm him down while Ron still held his arms pinned back away from her.

“It’s not about what you think I want, or Hermione wants from you, you prick. We only want to help you, to comfort you. And you’re going to let me, damn it. If I have to hold you down, kicking and screaming, you’re going to let me give you the relief you need, understand? I could have lived with the strangling part, but you went way over the line. You tried to fuck Bellatrix for Christ sakes, Harry. Bellatrix!” Ron said incredulously. 

Harry’s cock jerked, and he groaned, his whole body shuddering with desire and revulsion at her name.  

“We _do_ love you. We’re only trying to calm you, and if this is what you need to keep you from completely destroying yourself, then we’re doing it my way. Nice and slow, or not at all,” Ron warned, still speaking low, directly into Harry’s ear while Harry continued to growl at Hermione, licking the blood from his ragged lips, his need obvious as clear fluid leaked from the tip of his swollen erection.

 

* * *

 

Hermione pressed her body to Harry’s, so that they were all resting their weight against Ron. Running her hands up Harry’s neck, into his hair, she captured his lips in a gentle kiss. Whining at the contact, Harry struggled against Ron’s hold. But despite his protests, Harry was eager for her. Opening his mouth immediately, he groaned when their tongues met, and dug his erection into her hip. She tasted blood and fear, and when she pulled away, his eyes were black with desire, his trapped arms straining, his fingers grasping at the air, trying to reach her.

“You… you have to get away from me,” he moaned, shaking all over. “Stun me, Hermione. Hurry, before I hurt you again. Please. I’m begging you. I’m coming apart, and I can’t get control of it.”

Hermione took a step back from Harry then, and he visibly sagged in Ron’s arms, relieved perhaps at the belief that she’d taken his advice. But she had no plans to stun him if she could help it, no plans to ever walk away and leave him. Never.

Instead of drawing her wand, Hermione placed it on the sink behind her and opened her beaded bag. Pulling the vial of Dittany from its depths, she uncorked it and dripped the healing potion on Harry’s wounds that were still oozing down his arms and thigh and then across Ron’s forehead. Then she wet a flannel with warm water and wiped the blood from his chest, from his and Ron’s faces, and what she could reach on Harry’s arms, which Ron still held pinned back. Harry watched her every move, all of them silent except for their heavy breathing. 

The scar was bright red against his forehead, and she knew that Voldemort was to blame, at least in some part, for the suffering Harry was enduring. 

When she’d healed and cleaned what she could, Hermione poured a generous measure of the calming draught into a spoon she’d conjured. Moving deliberately slowly, she took a small sip while she stood in front of Harry, whose eyes went wide with renewed fear, his nostrils flaring as he backed into Ron. Bypassing him, she then offered the spoon to Ron, who also took a tiny sip. 

“We all need a little calming down, I think. The full moon is making you too aggressive, Harry,” she said soothingly. “You’re terribly upset. You’re in pain and so very frightened. Let us help you. We only want to help you.” Finally, she offered Harry the rest. “It’s only a calming draught, I swear it.”

Harry stared at her fearfully, his body heaving, his teeth still clamped tightly together as tears rolled down his cheeks. But Hermione held his gaze and eventually, he gave in, reluctantly opening his mouth to take the rest. Letting the potion calm his aggression, Harry finally let it soothe his hysteria. After a few minutes, he relaxed into Ron’s arms, the fight going out of him at last. 

Ron loosened his grip on Harry once it appeared he’d calmed down. He was still breathing hard, but he was no longer hysterical, no longer straining to get out of Ron’s hold. Praying the worst was finally over, Hermione breathed out a sigh of relief.

Still whispering soothing words of reassurance into Harry’s ear, Ron turned him, holding Harry against his chest with an arm across his lower back and a hand at the base of his head. Gripping Ron’s waist, Harry pressed his face into Ron’s neck, whimpering and trembling like a small bird.

“It’s all right, Harry. Everything’s going to be all right. Just hush now,” Hermione crooned, stroking his back while Ron held him. 

Harry clung to Ron, burrowing into his neck, gripping fistfuls of his shirt as his body shuddered in Ron’s embrace. Crying again, but working his mouth over Ron’s throat at the same time, he smeared tears and probably snot, but Ron didn’t look like he cared in the slightest.

Pushing away from the wall, Ron walked Harry slowly backwards out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, steering him towards the bed. Half way there, their lips met again. Both of Ron’s hands were now on the back of Harry’s neck, his fingers in his hair while Harry continued to clutch at Ron’s waist. 

Hermione followed them out of the bathroom silently, almost dreamlike as she watched in awed fascination at the two men she loved embracing, entwined together in a way that was desperate and dangerous, but also beautiful.

Harry was almost completely naked but for his socks, bent slightly backwards in Ron’s arms. The new wounds were freshly knitted, but still raw on his skin as he slipped his hands into Ron’s unfastened trousers, sliding them over Ron’s hips to grip his arse as Ron backed him into the bed. They broke apart when Harry lost his balance and was forced to sit. He just stared up at Ron then, his eyes and nose red, his mouth parted, his expression a mixture of fear and desire.

 

* * *

 

Ron stared down at Harry, trying to read his eyes. Harry said he needed them, and there was no question that it was true. But he was saying one thing with his body, with his hands and mouth, and something else entirely in those almost-black orbs, and Ron wasn’t sure what he should do. 

Harry had told him he was either raging, or had a raging hard-on. Today it was both and a whole lot of other shit. He’d gone completely mental. Running off to try and get himself killed, almost getting them all killed, then escaping again to try and finish the job with another suicide attempt. He’d broken the promises he’d made, and Ron had had enough of it. Whatever the consequences later, Harry needed relief right now, and Ron was going to give it to him, however he could.

“I’m afraid,” Harry confessed in a whisper.

“We all are. I can’t even remember not being afraid, anymore. But I’m not afraid of you, Harry. And I’m not afraid of this,” Ron replied. 

“But if I… if we do this… we can’t go back. Not anymore, Ron.”

“I know,” Ron agreed, leaning down and pressing his mouth to Harry’s throat to nip at the skin there. “I don’t want to. Hermione and I have already talked about this.”

“Talking about it... and doing it are two different things,” Harry argued, his breath hitching at Ron’s continued attack on his neck.

“I believe you started it this time in the bathroom when you were swallowing my cock,” Ron growled into his ear, sucking the lobe between his teeth.

“Oh, God,” Harry groaned. He sounded miserable, but Ron could see Harry’s cock throbbing at his words and what he was doing with his mouth. “I’m sorry… I… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Ron. I’m out of control. But there’s still time to turn back. Please take it. Take Hermione and run.”

Pulling back, Ron stared hard into his face. Harry was telling him to leave, yet clinging to him desperately at the same time as if afraid he truly would. 

Ron shook his head. “I can’t. It’s too late for that. I already told you, I’m never leaving without you, Harry, so just stop fighting it,” he breathed, his lips back against Harry’s neck. “We all want this, need this, and you know it.” 

Harry didn’t try to deny it this time as Ron slid his hands back into Harry’s hair and his tongue into his willing mouth. Holding him firmly, Ron crawled onto Harry’s lap, straddling his thighs now, pushing him backwards so that Harry was propped on both his elbows underneath him. 

Their snogging grew more urgent, and Ron pulled back again, breathing hard, needing to calm down before he flipped Harry onto his stomach and started humping him like a dog, or crawled farther up him so he’d take him into his mouth again. God damn, Ron wanted him! But this wasn’t about him, he had to forcefully remind himself.

“You’d better tell me now if you want to stop,” Ron warned staring into those half lidded eyes that blinked slowly up at him as if the snogging had left him dazed, or the calming potion had made him woozy. He needed to be sure before he carried this farther, before there truly was no turning back. He was already teetering on the point of no return. “I’ll keep my promise to keep my hands off you, if you tell me you don’t really want me. But don’t tell me that you don’t want to want me again, though, Harry, because that’s not good enough this time.”

Staring into Ron’s eyes, Harry licked his swollen lips, and then they parted again in that same invitation from last night. It looked like that was as close to consent as Ron was going to get. Leaning down, he accepted it this time without hesitation, capturing Harry’s mouth once more, both of them moaning as he rubbed their erections together. 

 

* * *

 

Harry groaned into Ron’s mouth, knowing that the fight was over, if indeed there ever really was one. Once captured, he knew he’d submit to whatever they wanted. That’s why he’d run so hard from it. But it felt like a betrayal; a betrayal of Ginny, a betrayal of his heart, and it made him burn with shame and self-loathing. 

There was no future for them, him and Ginny, but even still, he’d tried to hold onto himself. He’d had it forcibly taken from him, but he’d never before given himself of his own free will, until now. He was crossing a line, had already crossed it with Bellatrix earlier, turning his back completely on the Harry he’d been before. Abandoning the one thing he’d managed to cling to, the one tiny piece of himself that had remained pure, that he could hold up to Ginny as proof of his faithfulness to her, even if only in his own conscience. It was gone now, all of it, crumbled to dust. The wolf in him was just too strong, and he was too weak to keep resisting it.

Harry wanted to _want_ to stop this, to say no, but he couldn’t, and he didn’t. He needed them so badly right now. He was drowning, and he couldn’t fight against it anymore. He hated himself for it, for giving in to his desire, for letting the demon take control of him, for letting it infect them, but he couldn’t stop it. Overcome with lust and filled with an aching need, he was desperate for them. Burning so badly on the inside with grief and guilt, he needed them to ease the pain of it, to smother the fire before he went completely mad and couldn’t hold it inside him any longer. Afraid it would burst from his eyes and mouth, gold flames exploding from his every pore to consume them all.

Ron turned back to Hermione then, as if asking for permission, for direction, and she reached again into her beaded bag still clutched in her fist, never taking her wide eyes off either of them. The sight of her made Harry’s heart pound and his mouth go dry. He wasn’t afraid of Ron, for some reason, though he knew that he certainly should be. But Hermione terrified him. The idea of being with her again, of using her like that made him ache with longing and tremble with fear despite the potion she’d given him.

“Just you,” he croaked out.

Ron turned back to him, frowning slightly, his forehead creased.

“Just you,” he whispered again desperately.

Leaning back down to him, Ron cupped his face, tilting Harry’s head back. “Not this time, mate,” he whispered back, kissing Harry lightly to soften the rejection. “I don’t really know what the hell to do with you, frankly, and I don’t want to hurt you. Well, not anymore than I already have,” he added, brushing his thumb across Harry’s torn and bruised lip.

“I know what to do,” Harry offered.

“No, you don’t. Not really,” Ron argued. “Just relax for me. Let us take care of you, let Hermione and me help you.”

“I’m scared... I’m scared of what will happen.”

“I know, but it’s okay.”

Harry swallowed hard, opening his mouth to argue further, to say no, to turn back, but nothing came out.

 

* * *

 

They all needed a little more time to calm down and think over the consequences of their actions, Hermione thought. More time for the potion to fully take effect, more time for Harry to back out if he was going to. She would not force him into anything or rush him again. 

Her fingers finally found what they were searching for, and she pulled out a small jar, letting the bag fall to the floor while Ron crawled back off Harry’s lap. She unscrewed the lid as Ron kicked of his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor, he then moved to the head of the bed. He sat; his back pressed against the headboard and pulled Harry, unresisting, back against him. Ron settled Harry between his knees, his back flush against Ron, his eyes wide and frightened again while Hermione moved towards them both. 

Dipping her fingers into the jar, she closed her eyes, blinking slowly, drawing the soothing smell of mint into her nostrils when she breathed deeply. No one spoke as she sat next to them on the bed and rested the jar between her knees. Moving slowly, she reached out her hands, placing them against Harry’s neck and feeling his rapid pulse pounding against her fingers a moment before she began massaging the salve into his heated skin. 

His flesh was so warm; her hands so cold that she thought it might actually steam when she began working the ointment into his skin in small circles down his neck and shoulders, over his arms which were covered in new bruises from Ron’s hands. Hermione examined the healing wounds as she went. Uncurling his fists, she kissed the tips of his battered fingers before applying the remaining cream onto his knuckles and around the abused digits. 

Gathering more, she moved to his chest while Ron ran a calming hand through Harry’s hair when his breath hitched. Tilting Harry’s head to the side, Ron buried his nose in Harry’s neck when he began tensing up as her hands traveled downward, distracting him when she reached his stomach and slid them around his waist to get at the new bruise that was forming from where he’d slammed so hard into the corner of the sink. 

Then she reached up and rubbed a dab over Ron’s eyebrow, into the healing cut above his right eye from what she guessed was a grazing Death Eater’s spell. Ron smoothed her hair. Cupping her cheek, he slid his thumb across her lips.

“I love you,” she whispered, turning her face into his palm. He smiled at her, letting his hand fall from her face to stroke down Harry’s arm.

Turning her attention back to Harry, who had relaxed back against Ron a bit when she had tended Ron’s wound, Hermione once again filled her fingers from the jar while he watched her apprehensively. She continued her slow healing massage as Ron began exploring Harry’s heaving chest, smoothing the gooseflesh that had prickled Harry’s skin from the cooling balm. Massaging what remained into his skin, they worked in tandem to relax him, to soothe him. 

Whimpering when she was at his hips, Harry’s hands curled again into tight fists as she ran her thumbs along his hip bones and down to the tops of his thighs. He didn’t relax them again until she had travelled far enough down his legs so that his fear abated. 

She was careful not to touch his full arousal or so much as brush against it as she examined the healing wound Bellatrix had cut into his thigh, fearful herself of causing another violent reaction from him in his volatile state. Hermione wanted to calm him, not send him into another panicked frenzy. Her breath alone was enough to make him groan, his body trembling when she exhaled and the warm air ghosted over his tingling flesh.

Harry closed his eyes when she’d made it down to his feet, groaning again when she pulled off his socks and ran her thumb up into the arch of his foot. 

Finishing, she replaced the cap on the jar, took a deep steadying breath, and met Ron’s gaze. Now that the moment of decision was on her, she began to feel a bit frightened herself as she stood, placing the cream on the side table. She couldn’t believe this was happening. The events of this entire morning still seemed surreal.

Ron’s eyes were heavily hooded, his pupils dilated as she began to slowly undress. Keeping her eyes focused on his, her hands shook a bit as she fumbled to work the buttons loose on her top.

“Nice and slow,” Ron encouraged, his voice low, soothing her of her nervousness and Harry’s renewed fear as he went back to stroking Harry, massaging his neck and then out across his shoulders. “Everything’s all right.”

Her blouse fell to the floor, and her heart began to pound, a familiar aching beginning between her thighs, growing more profound as she stepped out of her jeans, straightening again to face them both. 

Harry’s mouth parted, and his tongue darted out to wet his dry, swollen lips when she unclasped her bra and let it slide from her shoulders. His eyes grew impossibly wide, going almost completely black again, filled with undisguised lust. It reminded her irresistibly of how he’d looked in the dungeon under the influence of that horrid potion, and his battered face did nothing to dispel that image. It served as a warning to her of just how dangerous this was for all of them. Yet she had no fear of Harry. Even in those desperate moments of their forced encounter, he’d tried his best not to cause her pain, doing everything in his power to prevent it. Harry would never harm her. She was convinced of it. 

Then she was standing bare in front of them, her body flushing with embarrassment at the heat of their combined stares, though the potion was doing its part to help, keeping her from panicking and bolting for the door, at least.

Rubbing Harry’s arm again when he began to tremble more violently, Ron held his other hand out to her and she slid hers into it, accepting the invitation to join them. 

 

* * *

 

Harry was shaking all over, his heart pounding as Hermione climbed onto Sirius’ bed with them. His eyes were watering from not blinking. His mouth was open, and he began panting when she straddled his thighs and removed his glasses. 

Placing her hands on Ron’s knees, she leaned in then, pressing herself against him to kiss Ron, sandwiching Harry between them. Explosions were going off in his head again at the feel of her body, naked and pressed against his, pressing him further against Ron’s.

Swallowing hard, Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Their familiar scents filled his sensitive nostrils, mixing with the smell of blood and the musk of their combined arousal. He smelled cinnamon and lavender and mint, his scent and theirs all blending together.

The feel of both of them, one soft, one hard, their warm bodies against his own, coupled with the image of them together like this in his mind, left him aching with longing and trembling with fear.

Harry was terrified of being with them, terrified of who they might turn into in his ravaged mind, of what he would do if he couldn’t stop himself believing it. Horrified and repulsed by what he had already done with Bellatrix. 

He’d tried to act out his terrible fantasy, blind to everything but his thirst for revenge, and it had cost him Dobby. It had almost cost him Ron, too. The marks were already turning purple on Ron’s neck from where Wormtail had tried to strangle him. Harry’s mind was still too numb to fully comprehend what had happened, what he’d done. He was in shock, the agony of what his actions had wrought, too much for him absorb.

Pulling away from Ron, Hermione ran her small hands over Harry’s chest while Ron went to work on his neck again and behind his ear, whispering soothing words along his dampened, tingling skin. Hermione inched forward, positioning herself over him, and Ron reached down to grasp Harry’s cock, which was standing at attention. Harry jerked in fear, gripping the duvet, whimpering again as his cock kicked in Ron’s grip. 

This was happening! This was happening, and he was letting it. He couldn’t stop it. The demon inside him had been let out, the wolf set free. Lord help him!

“Shhhh,” she breathed against his lips as she slid herself down onto him, taking him inside her with Ron’s help.

“Oh, God!” Harry cried as the blunt tip of his swollen erection was engulfed in molten heat. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing fast as the panic started to build in him again, even with the calming potion. The entire bottle of it wouldn’t have been able to stop it surging in him right now.

Memories of Bellatrix taking him that first time in the same way flooded him, her cold hands on him, Rudolphus behind him, ready with the rope to strangle him. Harry struggled to anchor himself fully in reality and not sink into that horrible nightmare, into that terrifying flashback as he began to hyperventilate.

“It’s all right, Harry,” Ron tried to soothe him, releasing the grip on Harry’s cock to stroke Hermione’s thigh. 

Tears leaked out of Harry’s eyes as his breath hitched, and he held it. He laid his head back on Ron’s shoulder when Hermione had settled herself onto him and then stilled while Ron ran his hands through his hair to calm him. 

Fully sheathed inside her, his cock pulsed with every beat of his heart as Hermione slowly slid her hands over Harry’s shoulders, up his neck, then to his face. She rocked her hips back once, experimentally, and then forward again, wiping the wetness away from his eyes, which were still squeezed shut while he sat rigid underneath her.

He moaned, biting down on his bruised and torn lip hard so that the skin around his teeth was pulled taut, and he tasted blood again. She felt incredible, like his memory of her, images of her chained to the wall, him gripping her as he penetrated her flashing in his mind once more, filling him with terrible remorse as she moved slowly over him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the guilt agonizing. “I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he cried, as tears continued to leak out of his eyes, his breath still coming in quick gasps.

“Hush. It’s okay, Harry, you aren’t hurting me. Look at me,” she urged him softly, stilling again. 

He shuddered, but obeyed. Opening his eyes, he lifted his head off Ron’s shoulder to stare at her. 

“We’re not in that terrible place anymore, Harry, and I’m not her, all right? Please, just calm down. We’ll stop if you want to. You get to say no if you don’t want this. We both get to decide this time, but I’m not saying no. Not today, Harry. Do you understand?” 

She was gently pulling on his arms, trying to get him to loosen his grip on the blankets again. Harry nodded, letting go reluctantly this time, and she pulled his hands up, placing one on her narrow waist. The other she placed against her cheek. Turning her head, she kissed his palm before lacing her fingers with his. Returning her other hand to his face, she leaned into him again, pressing her forehead against his. 

“We just want to be with you. We love you, Ron and I love you. Let us take care of you, Harry.” 

She’d stopped moving, but squeezed her muscles around his aching cock, still nose to nose with him. He clutched at her waist in response, gasping at the exquisite feel of her surrounding him, gripping him tightly. Then Ron slid his hands over Harry’s ribs, brushing his thumbs across his hardened nipples, and Harry shuddered again, letting out the breath he was holding as Hermione started to move again. Taking his silence for consent, she began rolling her hips more firmly over him now. 

Her hands on Ron’s shoulders, Hermione used him to pull herself onto Harry over and over, grinding into him. His head fell back against Ron again, and Hermione captured Ron’s lips as they began to move together, all three of them, Hermione and Ron rocking him between them. 

The sensation of too many hands, of too many limbs, overwhelmed him. The calming potion and the sensory overload were shutting down his brain so there was only a buzzing between his ears, leaving him with the ability to feel everything, but comprehend nothing.

Finally, Harry let go. Wrapping his arms around Hermione, his face in her neck, he gave in completely, giving himself over to them, letting them take care of him, letting them soothe his aching grief. Ron slid his own arms around them both, pressing Harry between their embrace as Hermione cradled his head, holding Harry against her.

His back was getting sticky with moisture from Ron’s pre-cum and the perspiration from their warm bodies sliding together. And Ron was moaning now, too, as he rubbed himself against Harry. Then it grew more intense, and Ron’s hands were everywhere, touching Harry, touching Hermione, touching himself. Ron jacked himself against Harry’s lower back, thrusting against him with one hand on Harry’s chest now to steady him, the other on Hermione’s bum, helping to pull her back into Harry and Harry back into him. And Harry couldn’t sit still any longer either. 

His body was begging for more, desperate for the release. Digging his heels into the mattress, Harry pressed back against Ron, pinning him against the headboard. His legs stiffened as he tried pushing his hips up into Hermione. Gripping Ron’s thighs, Harry’s fingers dug into his flesh. He was writhing, moaning again, the pleasure building, bringing the frantic hysteria back. 

Ron responded. Kissing him with a hunger that Harry didn’t know existed, he pulled his head almost completely sideways for better access while Hermione leaned backwards, her head thrown back, gripping Harry by the shoulders, panting as she rode him still harder.

Harry broke away from Ron’s mouth, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes closed, his heart pounding as all his muscles tensed up. He was going to come. 

Holding his breath, his hands scrabbling feverishly, they finally found Ron’s and he dragged them to his throat, shaking as he tried to get Ron to press down on his windpipe. Harry squeezed his hands over Ron’s, but Ron wouldn’t comply, denying Harry his frantic, pleading request.

Still refusing to breathe, Harry’s vision began growing dark. A familiar roaring was starting in his ears as he struggled with Ron, fighting against Hermione now, too, as he bucked underneath her. 

Harry was suddenly desperate to get her off of him. His orgasm was speeding towards him, and he couldn’t stop it. He was afraid again to come inside her, afraid of infecting her with what was inside him. And he was terrified that the cold numbing blackness would consume him once more when it was over.

Stars were exploding behind his closed eyelids as his body screamed for air, for release, his heels digging into the mattress, his body rolling underneath Hermione. Then Ron pressed a fist into his stomach and jerked hard against Harry’s diaphragm, forcing him to expel his breath, and Harry erupted into orgasm. 

“NOOOOO!” he howled, bowing off the bed, his vision growing bright white with the force of his release. He was sobbing again, gasping for breath as waves of ecstasy wracked his body, and he came onto his own stomach and chest. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry!”

“Christ! Are you all right, Harry?” Ron asked fearfully, scrambling out from behind him, turning Harry’s face towards him when Harry tried to pull away, to curl up on his side in misery. 

“Oh, God.  I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“I thought you were going to die. You fucking stopped breathing! What the hell was that?” Ron asked fearfully, sitting back on his haunches and rubbing his face.

Harry shook his head, his body trembling all over as he remained curled in on himself, still breathing hard, his heart thumping erratically, tucked in a ball between them again. Then he broke out in a cold sweat, moaning when the nausea hit him and his stomach cramped violently.  No. No!

Oh, God! He was going to be sick.

Rolling quickly over a startled Ron and off the bed, Harry staggered to the bathroom, clutching his stomach. His vision tunneling, he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited.

“Harry… mate? Are you all right?” Ron asked quietly from the doorway when Harry had finished violently heaving up the entire contents of his stomach. 

Harry nodded his head, reaching up to flush the toilet, but he didn’t get up from the floor. He didn’t know if he could. His body was still shaking violently, and he felt dizzy and weak. When he finally stood to wash his mouth out in the sink, he was lightheaded and had to seize the corner of the vanity to avoid crashing into the wall. Ron grabbed his other arm to keep him from swaying as his vision winked in and out.

Finally when he’d steadied himself, he splashed water on his clammy face and rinsed out his mouth before taking several long swallows of water, which rolled ominously in his stomach. Then Ron steered him, on wobbly legs, back to the bed, where Hermione was sitting up, clutching the sheets, her blurry face a mask of concern.

“Ron, he’s bleeding again,” she said, pointing to Harry’s knees.

Ron rolled him onto the bed where Harry lay on his back, totally disoriented. Blood was smeared on his legs, and he had small bits of glass imbedded in the skin of his knees and shins from where he’d knelt in front of the toilet as well as in the bottoms of his feet. He hadn’t even felt it.

“Damn it,” Ron sighed, bending over him to check the damage.

“Get the Dittany from my bag again, Ron, and a warm wet rag.”

He did, and they worked for several minutes removing the glass shards and cleaning his legs before dripping the Dittany over the small wounds to heal them while Harry lay motionless on the bed, barely comprehending the conversations going on around him.

“He’s really pale. I think maybe he’s allergic to that calming potion, or something.”

“No. I think he’s going into shock, Ron.”

“Do his lips look blue to you?”

“Help me elevate his legs, quickly!” 

“I think we should get Madame Pomfrey.”

“How do you plan to summon her here? Now that… now Dobby’s gone?”

Someone grabbed his wrist while Harry stared blindly up at the ceiling. He thought they planned to pull him up, but whomever it was just held his limp arm by the wrist. His body felt heavy, his brain lethargic, and he was growing cold as if all the warmth was draining out of him again, replaced by the suffocating cold blackness just as he’d feared. But he could do nothing to prevent it.

Then they were stacking pillows under his calves and covering him in blankets while his eyelids became heavier and heavier, like he hadn’t slept in days. He was breathing deeply, calmly, but the air didn’t seem to have enough oxygen in it.

“Should we try and keep him awake a while, you think, Hermione?” Ron asked. “What if he blanks out again like the other morning in the shower?”

“Harry?” Hermione called softly to him, turning his face to look in his eyes. “Harry, can you hear me?”

He blinked at her slowly, and then nodded his head. 

“Something warm. Tea, maybe?”

Harry could hear the concern in their voices, see it in their faces. He wanted to tell them he was all right, but he didn’t think he was. He still felt cold and numb, maybe from the potion she’d given him, maybe from shock. He didn’t know. He was just so tired. Too exhausted to respond, too exhausted to think. Instead, he shook his head.

“Tired,” he mumbled, squeezing someone’s fingers reassuringly a moment before trying to curl up on his side again. But there was a hand at his chest, preventing him.

“No, lay back for me a moment, Harry.”

Harry frowned, but stilled.

“I’m going to give you a Pepper-up Potion. All right? It’s all I really have that might help.”

He shook his head, but one of them was already sliding their hand under his neck, lifting his head. The spoon pressed against his lips, a thumb at his chin pried his mouth open to pour the potion in, and he swallowed it, unable to resist them. 

Hot liquid slid down his throat and into his stomach, which cramped again, threatening to expel it. He groaned. But then the heat began spreading rapidly out into his chest and limbs, and steam poured out of his ears, evaporating the fog in his brain.

“Better?” Hermione asked.

He nodded again, his vision clearing, his heart beating faster and the ringing in his ears that he hadn’t really noticed, subsiding. Even his sinuses, stuffy from so much crying, were drying up.

“Thank God!” she said in relief.

“Hermione, you’re brilliant! Have I told you that lately? Fucking brilliant!”

“Thank you, Ron.” 

“A Pepper-up Potion, how the hell did you think of that?”

“I have some basic potions in my bag, things I’d nicked, actually, from the Burrow, like the Dittany and Mad-Eye’s Polyjuice potion. It’s a cold remedy, but it was the only thing I could think to do. Madame Pomfrey had given us all some when we came out of the lake during the tournament, and I thought, at the very least, it might quickly warm him up. It felt like liquid adrenaline when I’d taken it.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Still, quick thinking, luv.”

Hermione’s hands were on Harry’s neck, checking his pulse again. She tilted his face to stare into his eyes. Brushing the hair off his forehead, she said, “Your color is coming back. Do you feel all right?”

“Mmmhmm,” he mumbled. “Still tired.” He felt terribly weak and totally exhausted, like he was still recovering from a long and dreadful illness.

“Here,” she said, pulling the pillows from under his legs so he could get comfortable, and he immediately curled up on his side again.

After a moment, Hermione lay down beside him, facing him, stroking his hair out of his face again, running her thumb over his eyebrow and across his cheek. Then Ron lay down on his other side, curling his body around Harry’s and holding Harry against him in the embrace he’d woken up to on this same bed days and days ago. It felt nice, safe.

Hermione continued stroking his face, tucking sweat dampened locks behind his ears. Pressing her forehead to his, she stared into his eyes a moment and then kissed him softly.

“Everything’s going to be all right now, darling. Go to sleep.”

Darling. She’d called him “darling.” Harry didn’t think anybody had ever called him that before. Ginny had called him “love,” or “sweetheart” sometimes, but never “darling.” He and Cho hadn’t been together long enough for them to have developed any affectionate terms or silly pet names for each other. Did Hermione call Ron that, too, when they were alone together? he wondered sleepily. 

Won-Won, maybe that’s what Hermione called Ron when they were wrapped naked around each other and he was making her toes curl and her body tingle, he thought suddenly. Maybe not. 

Mrs. Weasley might have called him “sweetie” once, or “sweet boy,” he thought dimly. Perhaps his own mother had called him darling when she held him in her arms. “Her darling boy.” It sounded like the sort of thing a mother might call her child, or maybe he was just remembering Aunt Petunia. Not that she’d ever called Harry that. The Dursley’s had left off the “darling” if they ever addressed him, his aunt saving that endearment for their little Diddy. They just called Harry “boy” mostly, because he was not their son, and they had never wanted him. 

Darling. Sweetheart. Boy. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who just kept right on living, and living while everyone around him died.

Harry’s eyes burned again so he closed them, and even though it was still early in the day, he slipped into darkness, falling into an exhausted sleep.

~ . ~


	34. Talking it over in Bed

“Well, that was a fucking disaster,” Ron whispered miserably when Harry had gone limp beside him.

Hermione continued to stroke Harry’s head in silence until they were both sure he was asleep before she spoke, asking the questions Ron knew were coming. Many for which he had no answers.

“Ron, I think it’s time you told me what’s happening with Harry. What went on last night that he wanted kept secret from me? And what happened this morning? Were you seen? Did the Death Eaters ambush you? How could they have known you’d be there, and how did you get separated from him?”

“One at a time, Hermione,” he replied wearily, holding up his hand to silence her. Then he began to explain. “I found Harry last night coming out of the bathroom. He’d had a nightmare, like I told you. I wasn’t quite asleep yet and heard it. Then after a while when he didn’t come back, I went looking for him to make sure he was all right. Let’s just say Harry wasn’t expecting company, and I discovered his secret.” Ron stopped speaking, frowning at the memory. It still made him angry and desperately sad.

“What was it?” she prompted.

“He’s been cutting himself, Hermione,” he answered flatly. “Over and over again.”

“Oh, God—”

“I know! I was furious, and I threatened to tell you and Mum and Dad, even Lupin and Ginny if he didn’t swear to stop. He promised he wouldn’t do it again, which was a lie, obviously, and he begged me not to tell you. I agreed, but only on the condition that he come to me first before it got so bad that he felt like he needed to do it again. Then I tried to make him talk to me about it, to tell me what was happening with him, using alcohol to try and loosen his lips so I could pry it out of him. But, Christ, ‘Mione! It’s like trying to wring water from a stone.”

“Yes, I know,” she said ruefully, running her hands affectionately through Harry’s hair again.

“He’s just so fucked up, and the moon is making it worse. I made it worse trying to force this relationship on him.” 

“We both did, Ron.”

“He’s having nightmares all the time. I don’t think he’s slept worth a damn since we moved out of this room, and he admitted that he’s started having visions again from You Know Who now, too. He didn’t want me to tell you about that, either, but we both knew he was, and I told him so.”

“So, then what happened this morning in Diagon Alley?”

“I don’t really know. We’d been sitting there freezing our backsides off. Then I heard someone and thought it might be you. When I turned to look, I found him all the way at the other end of the alley, fighting four Death Eaters. I’d never even heard the prat get up and leave. Then all hell broke loose, spells were flying everywhere, and you turned up right in the damn middle of it. I just barely managed to grab hold of Bellatrix as she was Disapparating with Harry, but when we arrived at the Malfoy’s, I landed on my face, broke my wand, and must have crashed into something because I got knocked out. Next thing I knew, I’d come to lying under a dining table. I thought I must have had amnesia, or something, ‘cause I didn’t know where the hell I was, or what had happened. But then I sat up to find Harry strangling Bellatrix with Wormtail and Draco’s mother trying to get him off her. Wormtail started strangling me with that cursed silver hand of his, and then you turned up again with Dobby and got us the fuck out of there.”

Hermione lay silent then, absorbing his tale before she finally spoke. “I saw the spells flying and ran out of the Apothecary, but I was too late to stop what happened. And when I couldn’t find you either, I came back here in a panic looking for Dobby. I begged him to take me to the Malfoy’s because I knew that’s where she’d take him. Poor Dobby was as terrified as I was, but he agreed,” Hermione told him, her voice shaking. Taking a deep breath, she held it a moment and then went on. “I found Dean and Luna in the dungeon, Ron, and Griphook and Mr. Ollivander, the wand maker, too. I knew I couldn’t just leave them there, but I didn’t know where to have Dobby take them. So I told him to take them to Bill’s, and then I continued searching for both of you, but neither of you was in any of the rooms. It wasn’t until I got to the top of the basement stairs that I could hear Harry’s voice—”

“Wait a minute,” Ron interrupted, startled by this news. “You found Dean and Luna?”

“Yes, and—”

“And you took them to Shell Cottage?”

“Yes, Ron. Well, no. Dobby took them there because I didn’t want to bring them here, and it was the only other place I could think of. And then I told him to come straight back for us. He’d just arrived when Bellatrix tried to slice off Harry’s leg.” She started to cry then. “It’s all my fault, Ron. The whole plan today was my idea, and now Dobby’s gone and Harry’s completely devastated.”

Quietly, Ron got up, walked around the bed, and slid in next to her. Turning away from Harry, she wrapped her arms around Ron, crying into his neck while he rubbed her back.

“It’s all right. It’s not your fault, Hermione. You never planned for any of this to happen.  It was just a terrible accident.”

She sobbed harder. 

“Just hush now,” he crooned, stroking her hair. “It’s not your fault. You got us out of there. You Know Who was probably coming, my wand was broken, and Harry was completely insane. But you rescued us and Dean and Luna and Mr. Ollivander, too. You did what you had to do, Hermione. You and Dobby probably saved all our lives.”

“I found… I found the room. Everything was burnt, and the walls were all scorched… except for where we’d been chained… and the sight of it… the smell of it,” she moaned, trembling in his arms. “But you weren’t in there either, and I just stood there and cried, Ron.  I couldn’t move. I was falling apart while you were upstairs being strangled by Pettigrew.”

“I’m fine, love. I’m all right, and you were incredibly brave. Everything’s going to be okay now, I promise.”

She clung to him for a long time until she’d cried herself out, hiccupping into silence finally. Then they just lay together with Harry asleep beside them, almost like the first night. Ron held her until he thought she might have fallen asleep, wishing he could, too. He was so tired, but his head was still aching dully from the probable concussion he’d sustained, and his stomach was cramping because it was so empty, making sleep impossible.

“Are you still awake?” he asked quietly after they’d been laying there for close to an hour.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good. Listen, I think I need to go back to Bill’s then if that’s all right. We tore out of there pretty fast after dumping a house full of refugees on them, apparently. Plus, I was damn rude when I left. I think I owe Bill an explanation or an apology at least. I’ll let them know everything’s fine here and tell them that we’ll be back in the morning. Okay? I don’t think Harry should go back over there again today,” he explained. “I know he’ll try to insist, but he needs a little time to sort through all this without an audience. You stay here with him. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

 “All right, Ron,” she agreed, sitting up.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, tilting her face up to him to look into her puffy eyes. 

“I’m fine. Go.”

“Okay. I won’t be long, I promise. Even in two languages, Bill and Fleur are bound to run out of names to call me before very long.”

Ron smiled at her, but it came out more like a grimace, and she rubbed his arm consolingly. Kissing her forehead, he got up and walked quietly back around to Harry’s side of the bed, where he redressed before returning to her. 

She reached out her hand. Sliding his fingers between hers, he squeezed once before handing Hermione her wand.

“Just in case,” he said, shrugging. 

“Be careful, Ron, and don’t worry. Harry and I will be fine here while you’re gone.”

“I hope so, but Harry’s a complete mess right now, and I don’t know if what we did will make it better, or worse,” he admitted, worried about leaving her alone with him. He glanced at Harry a moment in indecision before looking back to Hermione. “You stun him, straight away if he wakes up and starts freaking out again, understand?”

“I understand, Ron.”

Squeezing her hand again before releasing it, he sighed, picked up his shoes, and then padded out of the room; the door barely making a sound as he pulled it shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke up in the early afternoon curled up next to Hermione. She was stroking his hair, humming softly as she combed the unruly strands with her fingers, attempting to tame his defiant locks while he lay silent against her, trying not to think about any of the things that had happened today.

“I know you’re awake, Harry,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” he answered in complete honesty. “Dobby’s… dead.” 

His voice sounded flat to his own ears as if he couldn’t comprehend the words. But he had to say them out loud, hear them spoken before he could accept the truth of it. Dobby was gone now, too, and he was never coming back, murdered in front of Harry’s eyes like Sirius had been, like Cedric and Dumbledore.

“He was devoted to me, Hermione. He would have followed me anywhere, and I led him straight into hell. I got him killed just like all the others.”

Hermione’s breath hitched and her voice waivered as she spoke. “His death is my fault, Harry, not yours. I made him bring me to the Malfoy’s. I’m the reason he died. He’d still be here right now preparing lunch for us if I hadn’t.” 

“But you were coming for me. It was still because of me. He’s been… he had been trying to save my life since I was twelve years old, usually by trying to kill me, but still. God, I loved him,” he whispered, taking in a shaky breath of his own, his eyes burning again. “This one hurts worse than Dumbledore so that I can hardly let myself think about it. He was so innocent.” A tear rolled down his cheek, his chest aching with the loss. 

The world would be forever a less joyful place without Dobby in it. His death had torn a hole in Harry. A raw, gaping wound throbbing inside him that Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to close.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered.

Trembling, she turned into him, pulling him against her. As she wrapped her arms around him, she tucked her face into his neck. Harry let her, though he felt numb. His heart numb to it, his body. His mind insulating him, building a wall around it to protect itself from the total collapse it threatened to bring if he allowed himself to feel the depth of that grief.

“I killed someone else today, too,” she confessed into his neck, her voice still shaking. The warm air of her breath ghosted across his chest. “A man, a Death Eater. I killed him.”

“Whoever it was, he would have killed you, Hermione, or me or Ron.”

“I know, and I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry I did it. It’s as if I don’t feel any remorse at all for what I’ve done as if there’s no room inside me for it anymore. But what if he had children? A family? I should feel something shouldn’t I?”

“I’m not the person to ask. I killed Rowle. I would have killed her, too, if you and Ron hadn’t stopped me.”

He felt no remorse, no regret for the way he’d ended the massive Death Eater. It wasn’t self-defense. It was cold blooded murder. He hadn’t tried to goad Rowle into attacking him like he’d tried to do with Snape. He hadn’t attempted to justify his actions by provoking the wizard. He’d simply raised his wand, pointed it at the huge blonde, and said the spell. 

“ _Sectum Sempra_!” 

His fury had cut deep. Harry hadn’t shouted the spell. He didn’t need to. Bellatrix had once told him that to perform a truly powerful spell, he needed to really mean it, to really want to cause harm, and she was right. But an Unforgiveable Curse, the mercy of the Avada Kedavra, wasn’t what he’d had in mind. A rush of green light, a quick and painless death wasn’t good enough for that man. It wasn’t justice for what he’d taken from Harry. Harry wanted his rapist to feel pain, to know fear when he looked into Harry’s eyes and knew that his death was coming. He’d wanted to take back some of the power they’d stolen from him. Harry wanted Rowle to beg like he had begged. And when he felt his own life draining slowly away, Harry wanted him to feel the same helplessness to stop it that he’d felt trying to stop them. But Rowle’s death had provided him none of the satisfaction he craved. He hadn’t even tried to bargain or beg for atonement. He gave Harry nothing. Perhaps he knew there would be no forgiveness. Perhaps he could see in Harry’s eyes the cold finality of his decision, knowing there would be no hope of reprieve, no pardon for his crimes.

Hermione tried to make Harry believe that he wasn’t the cause of all the death around him, and that he’d tried to save everyone he could, but she was wrong. He wasn’t a savior or a defender. He was a deadly plague, a vengeful killer, a remorseless murderer. 

As blood poured from Rowle’s body, Harry remembered looking down at the dying man, no pity in his glance. Only acknowledgement of a piece of hard work finally completed. It meant Harry could draw a line through another name written in the back of his journal and add his initials beside it on the page. One more task off the long list he’d compiled and had to complete before he was through. Then he’d turned back to the next target on that list: Bellatrix, the person who held a place of honor right near the top.

“How did you know they were there? In the alley, did you see them coming?” Hermione asked then.

It took Harry a moment to regain the thread of their conversation. “No. I could smell her,” he said in disgust, remembering the moment that led to the events of this morning in vivid detail. “I smelled her, and my mind went totally blank. Then I didn’t know what I was doing or even care where I was. I just went straight towards her like a dog trained by its master to heel. Then after I killed Rowle, she Apparated with me, and I don’t really know what happened after that. She’d pressed her mark, and Tom was in my head. The pain was so bad, and I was just in this rage fueled frenzy until they tried to stop me killing her. Then Narcissa told me she’d kill Ron if I didn’t let her go. I didn’t even know he was there, Hermione. I didn’t know where I was.” The horror of that realization was upon him again as he desperately tried to explain his actions to her. The revulsion and shame of what he’d done and the terror of seeing Ron in Wormtail’s grip washed over him. He could have lost them, both of them today. Harry was once again to blame for them all being in that terrible place. “I promised you I’d keep him safe today,” he whispered, miserable with regret. “And I failed. I’m so sorry.”

Lifting her head, Hermione reached up and touched his cheek. He turned slowly to look at her, preparing for the expression of deep disappointment he would see in her features, ready to accept her sharp rebuke, but it didn’t come. She simply stared down at him with red-rimmed eyes, her face surrounded by a halo of messy curls. Then she leaned down and kissed him softly, and he felt the guilt burn in him again. He did not deserve her forgiveness, but, God, he wanted it. He wanted her, and Ron, wanted to keep them both here with him and safe.

“I’ve missed you, both of you, so damn much,” he confessed against her lips, gripping her head with both hands and pressing his forehead into hers. “I tried… I really did, but I need you too badly. I can’t help it, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I still think this is wrong… I still think it’s a terrible mistake, but I still want you, too.” He turned his head to stare at the spot where Ron had been. “And him. This is just so fucked up, Hermione!”

 “I know,” she murmured, laying back down and pulling him onto her. “It’s all right, Harry. We’ve both made some horrible mistakes today, but being with you wasn’t one of them.  Not for me.”

“Oh, Jesus!” he moaned. “You’re still naked.”

She smiled. “So are you.”

The sheet had shifted from where it had been tucked between them, and he could feel her bare skin on his. Pressed against her thigh, Harry went hard almost immediately, and he felt himself blushing, knowing she could feel it, too.

“Christ, I’m sorry, Hermione,” he apologized. Mortified, he tried pulling away from her, but she slid under him, positioning him so that his hips were between her thighs, trapping him. Harry’s eyes went wide and his body rigid. His heart started pounding as the beginnings of fear began to gather in his chest and slide into his stomach. 

“What on earth are you sorry for?” she asked, blinking innocently up at him as she ran her hands up his back and shifted her body more comfortably underneath him while he tried to avoid looking at her naked form.

She couldn’t possibly want to, he thought, dismayed, not after the total catastrophe he’d made of things earlier. The pity she felt for him must be enormous for her to willingly suffer through that again.

“Hermione, you don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” she replied.

Filled with doubt, Harry swallowed hard, staring down at her.

“Do you want to, Harry?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly, which was both a lie and the truth. 

He did want to, but he was still so afraid, still wishing with all his heart that he didn’t want her like this, that he could somehow obliterate his desire for her, bury it forever and turn from this path, steering them back into platonic friendship. But it was already too late for that. It had been from the moment he’d been coerced into carrying out Bellatrix’s terrible plans for them in the dungeon, when she’d forced him to swallow that horrible potion, led him to Hermione, and made her demands.

Searching her face, he asked then, “Are you sure, Hermione?” He was throwing the decision back on her again, trying, like a coward, to absolve himself from any accountability for his actions, half hoping she would change her mind and end his torment.

“I’m sure,” she said, smiling at him again.

His stomach swooped, but he couldn’t tell if it was from disappointment and fear, or desire and anticipation. Still, Harry didn’t move. He just kept staring down at her, his heart thumping. Hermione remained silent, staring right back, waiting for him to decide, letting him take the next step if he was brave enough to accept her invitation.

“I… I’ve never done it like this,” he whispered finally, fear and uncertainty in his voice. It was as much of an admission of his willing consent as he was capable of expressing.

“Then let’s make this your first time. It will be our first time together with both of us saying yes, both of us wanting to love each other without feeling fear or panic.”

“But what if I… I mean, is it safe?” he asked, his arms tensed, the muscles in his neck and back straining to hold himself off her.

“Yes. I use a spell.”

Harry’s brow furrowed a moment, and then he gaped at her. “You… you do?” he asked, surprised by her response because he wasn’t even asking about… what he meant was if she thought  it would be safe for him to do this after how he’d reacted to it this morning. Now his chest was constricting with a new fear. “But… before… in the dungeon? I tried not to, Hermione, but… are you sure you’re not… Oh, God! What if…”

An unbidden image of her filled his mind; Hermione pregnant, the evidence of what he’d done to her growing inside her womb. The prospect of creating a child out of that horrible act was so nightmarish that it struck him dumb, yet he’d never even considered it before now. He’d only ever thought of the violation of the rape itself, not the potential consequences. 

“Madame Pomfrey gave me a potion after she’d gotten you stabilized,” she answered quietly, interrupting his panicked stammering. “She assumed… well, after seeing what they’d done to you… I denied it, but she made me take the potion anyway.”

Harry nodded in relief, but then looked away from her, feeling the shame rising up in him again, made even worse now by his new awareness of what he’d put her through. He’d left her to suffer that fear alone. God, he was a bastard. 

Reaching up, she touched his face. “I took the potion just as a precaution, Harry. I’ve been using the spell since we left the Burrow after the wedding, but it has to be re-cast fairly regularly to be effective.”

He blinked, trying to make sense of her words. Then, when comprehension came, his eyebrows rose at her surprising admission. She’d been using a spell to prevent pregnancy for months? Why?

“W... what?” he stammered. “You mean back in the tent?”

“It’s nothing like that,” she said, snorting softly at the look of astonished disbelief on his face. “It wasn’t because I thought I might find myself tossing away my knickers one night and crawling into bed with either of you, or perhaps getting seduced by some handsome Muggle along the way. I just didn’t want the hassle of a menstrual cycle, is all.”

“Oh, right,” he said stupidly, as if he had any understanding at all of the mysterious workings of a woman’s body.

His face went red again. He couldn’t believe they were discussing these things at all, and most certainly not while they were both naked in bed, and he was braced over her, lying between her thighs. Not in his wildest imagination had he ever envisioned this scene. Then a new scene formed, and he pictured Hermione back in the tent slipping off her knickers to stand bare in front of him, like she’d done this morning, and then crawling into his bunk late one night, maybe the night Ron had left, seeking comfort for her loss. The vision of her made his pulse pound harder and heat pool in his gut, reigniting his arousal, which had been quelled by the horrors of his earlier thoughts. 

How might he have reacted had she come to him then? Would the Harry he’d been before have refused her, the Harry before their capture, before Greyback’s infection? Harry had to admit to himself finally that, no; he probably wouldn’t have been able to turn her away. If Hermione had asked him, he would have been powerless to resist her. The thought was actually comforting. Knowing that the attraction he felt for her now wasn’t simply brought on by the infection and the strength of the moon. Maybe it had always been present, but just deeply suppressed. The feelings simply lying dormant within him until now, sparked by what they’d endured together.

“Are you finished interrogating me on my contraception methods now?” she asked teasingly. “And you can rest your weight on me, you know,” she added when his arms had started to shake. “I won’t break. You probably don’t weigh two stones more than I do.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said dryly. “I guess Ron is a lot bigger than me, isn’t he?” Relaxing gratefully onto his forearms, Harry finally rested more of his weight against her, bringing their faces closer together, their bellies touching. “He’s stronger than me, too, the great git,” he growled, scowling at the bitter reminder of how easily Ron had overpowered him earlier. “But just wait ‘til I get back to my fighting weight. Then I’ll have his face in the dirt.”

“This is your fighting weight, darling,” she replied, her lips quirking as she ran her fingers up his arm.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed. Harry could hardly argue the point. He’d always been wiry, always a bit skinny. Maybe not this skinny, but he’d spent too many years being underfed by the Dursley’s. Life in their care had left its mark.

“But you’re one of the strongest men I’ve ever known,” she continued.  “And I think you’re just the right size.”

The tone in her voice held a hint of suggestion, and then, tilting her hips up to rub against him, she removed all doubt. It rendered him temporarily speechless, surprised by her boldness. Harry had never expected it from her, though he didn’t know why. Hermione had certainly never been timid about anything else, really. She’d always been fairly ‘take charge’ about things. Taking the lead when he or Ron hesitated, but when it came to sex, he just never thought she might be the aggressive one. He’d accused Ron of taking advantage of her, but perhaps, it had been the other way around.

Harry stared down at her, wide eyed, and she shifted underneath him again, sliding her hand down his back and over his arse encouragingly. Nope, not shy at all. Apparently, that was only Harry, who could feel the heat rising in his face again.

“God, please don’t let me throw up this time,” he moaned dismally.

“That would be an improvement,” she replied, stifling a laugh. “But we’ll keep the Pepper-Up potion on standby, just in case.”

 

* * *

 

Hermione didn’t want to do more to initiate this, to coerce Harry or make the decision for him. It had to be his choice. Harry needed to truly decide for himself if he wanted to be with her, to participate willingly, to be fully in control of it for the first time. Not forced and influenced by a potion or allowing the act to be performed under extreme emotional duress.

She could still see the apprehension in his eyes, feel it in the rigidness of his limbs, and she desperately wanted this to be something wonderful for him instead of something to fear. He deserved so much more than what this life had dealt him. And the panic he’d felt this morning certainly wasn’t the experience she’d hoped to give him. This time though, some of the old Harry, that slightly quirky, sometimes shockingly honest man that made her heart ache was starting to break through. Those little glimpses made her feel optimistic, encouraged that maybe, just maybe, the wand stuffed under her pillow might remain there.

At first, he’d been timid. Afraid of hurting her when he entered her, he filled her slowly, tentatively, but then, with her assurances and encouragement, his anxiety had finally started to ease, and he began to move less hesitantly. Rocking against her gently, his eyes locked on hers, Harry moved within her almost silently, making love to her unhurriedly, and she was in no rush to escalate it. Harry needed to set his own pace, to come to his completion on his own terms when he was ready instead of climaxing in some torturous, terrifying way. Besides, her tits didn’t have to be bouncing for it to still feel wonderful.

Kissing her softly, almost shyly as he slid into her again, he rested his forehead against hers and buried himself inside her. Letting her bear more of his weight, Harry relaxed his body, pressing her down further into the feather mattress as she wrapped her legs around him. 

Without the cooling effect of Madame Pomfrey’s balm, Hermione could feel the heat of his unnaturally warm skin all around her, radiating inside her, deep in her core. Reveling in the remarkable sensation of that searing heat, comforted by the weight of him against her, she rocked with him, running her hands up his back, over the flesh prickled with goose bumps, and into his hair. Shivering at her touch, Harry tilted his head back, eyes closed, and moaned, penetrating her as deeply as he could and holding himself there, his fingers curling into fists. The look on his face, the breaking of his silence was so beautifully erotic that she got goose bumps of her own. Grinding against him, Hermione squeezed around him in response, which made him bite down on his lips, fighting against the urge to move while his hips jolted in a spasm of pleasure.

“Are your toes curling?” Harry whispered hoarsely through gritted teeth as he pulled back and then slowly sank into her again as if savoring the sensation. “Feeling all tingly yet?  Because I am. Christ, you feel so good!” 

Hermione chuckled. She couldn’t help it. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“I don’t know how to make you feel like that. I’m crap at this.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“Will you teach me?” he asked, burying his face into her neck then, embarrassed by his request. “I don’t think my last instructor taught me correctly. Those lessons hurt. Ron said it’s not supposed to, but it always did. With you most of all. I don’t ever want to hurt you again, Hermione.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and she held Harry against her, stroking his head and wrapping her legs more tightly around him while he sighed into her hair. 

God, she loved this broken man.

“We’ll learn together. All right? You, and me, and Ron. We’ll discover each other on our own,” she told him, trying to keep her wavering voice steady. Hermione didn’t want him to know she was crying now. “You show me what feels good to you, and I’ll show you what feels good to me. How would that be?”

“Okay,” he agreed, nodding into her neck.

“Then maybe, when we’ve mastered that, we’ll brew up that batch of Polyjuice potion and learn all over again what if feels like for each other.”

“Oh, my God!” he moaned, curling his hips into her more firmly.

“Breathe,” she whispered as she rose up to meet him.

 

* * *

 

Ron arrived back from his brother’s house much later than he’d anticipated. Bill and Fleur were still annoyed with him when he’d arrived, but they’d kept their telling off to a minimum. Probably because they were quite preoccupied with two severely dehydrated, malnourished, and traumatized teens, an emaciated, tortured old man, a goblin beaten into unconsciousness, and a dead house elf to deal with. All of whom were competing for space in their tiny three bedroom cottage so they didn’t have much time to spare for Ron. 

Most unfortunately, however, Ron had to insist that Bill hold off on his plans to move anyone to another safe house, which he was in the process of doing when Ron arrived. He wouldn’t even let Bill bury Dobby without Harry’s approval which, of course, didn’t go over well with his oldest brother. That’s when the real fight began, but Ron stood his ground because he knew instinctively that Harry would want to see Dean and Luna for himself and know they were all right. He would want to speak with Mr. Ollivander, too, if he was able, about the things Harry had seen in his visions or to see if there was any hope of repairing his wand. And Griphook? Well, he was a goblin wasn’t he? A goblin who’d been a Gringotts employee at that, who might be willing to help them if he could be persuaded, Ron thought. Hermione had rescued him, after all.

Bill didn’t even have to ask why Ron wanted him to stay, though he clearly still disapproved of their plans to break into Gringotts, especially since they’d only sat outside the bank today and had nearly gotten themselves killed. 

But most importantly, Ron couldn’t let them bury Dobby without Harry being present. It was the argument he’d fought the hardest to win. He would not allow them to rob Harry of his chance to say goodbye to the elf that had been his friend, whose death had shattered him so completely.

He won out on all counts. Ron was, of course, second only to Harry in stubborn tenacity. So Bill had left him with the grim duty of preparing the elf’s body, which was still wrapped in Harry’s damp jacket and lying on a small table while he and Fleur tried to find places for the rest. 

Stripping him of his soiled clothes, Ron washed the blood from Dobby’s torso and mouth with a warm wet rag, revealing the red outline of a handprint over the deep gash in his chest, the skin burned from where Harry had evidently tried to use his magic to stop the bleeding. His features were so small, childlike, Ron thought, as he cleaned the wound. Tears dripped silently while he wiped the sand from the elf’s pale, lifeless body before drying him. 

When he’d finally finished his sad task and had wrapped the body in fresh linens that Fleur had given him, he carried the tiny remains back out of the bathroom. He found Bill waiting for him in the hall. Grimly, Bill performed a charm to preserve the body, and they lay the small bundle back on the table. Then Bill gripped Ron by the shoulder, squeezing it consolingly, and steered him into the kitchen.

Fleur had prepared a huge pot of soup and a mountainous stack of sandwiches for the hungry horde. Exhausted, Ron dropped heavily into a chair and began to eat gratefully, his headache subsiding finally with a full stomach. Then they sat and listened to Ron’s profoundly edited explanation of what had happened that morning. Once he’d finally gotten up to leave, Fleur had pressed more sandwiches and soup on him to take back to Harry and Hermione. Hugging her and Bill, he thanked them and then Disapparated.

When Ron entered Sirius’ room, he found the two of them still in bed, both asleep. Harry was curled up against Hermione, his head on her chest, his face buried in her neck. She was holding him tucked against her, like a mother comforting her child. Cradling him with her chin on his head, Hermione held Harry like Ron’s mother used to hold him when he’d had a bad dream, holding him, in fact, the way his mother had held Harry on the couch when he did wake from a bad dream. 

Ron watched them a moment longer before finally stripping and sliding in next to Harry. Curling his body around the other boy’s and throwing an arm over him to embrace them both, he nuzzled into the back of Harry’s neck and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Harry didn’t wake up again until late in the night, finding himself in the middle again, sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. He was curled around Hermione with Ron curled around him, a hand at his waist. 

With nowhere to go then, Harry lay there in the darkness thinking, staring at the strip of gray light cast by the full moon shining in through the window behind him. He was hungry, but didn’t want to eat, no longer tired, but reluctant to get up. Unwilling to leave the safety of the bed or their warm bodies, he stayed and thought for hours until the gray moonlight faded into early morning sunlight.

He thought of Bellatrix and Narcissa and Wormtail. He thought of Ron and Hermione and Dobby. And he thought of Voldemort and Dumbledore and an old man murdered in a cell in Nurmengard who’d once been a laughing boy Harry had seen in a picture. He thought of Horcruxes and Hallows, of secrets stored in a vial of memories, and ones locked in a snitch, both tucked safely in his pouch, but still out of reach. 

Harry thought until his mind was going around in circles, returning again and again to Voldemort and Grindelwald, to Pettigrew and Dumbledore, wondering what secrets Dumbledore knew and which ones he’d tried to keep hidden. 

Dumbledore had known people’s hearts, understood things about them that perhaps they didn’t even know themselves. As Ron had said, Dumbledore knew he would leave and need a way back. He also knew that Draco would not be able to kill him on the tower, even knew perhaps, (if Harry could look past his enmity for the man to the truth of what he’d seen that night) that Snape would not betray his wishes and perform the task instead. 

Had he also suspected that Peter felt remorse, even if only the smallest part of him? And did he believe, too, that Grindelwald might honor their brief close friendship and keep his secret? Because Harry was coming to understand what that secret might be, and as he did, he knew that somewhere in Malfoy Manor, Voldemort was also reaching that same conclusion.

What then had Dumbledore known about Harry? Did he know that Harry’s faith in him would be shaken? How badly it would test him to read of his mentor’s dark secrets in the pages of a book, written so scathingly by that acid green quill? Did he understand how hard it would be for Harry to continue to trust Dumbledore when he hadn’t trusted Harry enough to tell him the truth? 

What other secrets had he kept from Harry and why? Was he not meant to possess the wand? Had Dumbledore not wanted him to unite the Hallows? For surely he realized that Voldemort would seek the wand and eventually discover its location. Did he believe that Harry would get there first?

His head felt like it might burst with all the unanswered questions, filled with the uncertainty of his choices which threatened to leak out of his ears when there was no more room in his brain to hold them. For the first time in his life, Harry thought he understood finally what Dumbledore had meant when he’d told Harry that sometimes it was a relief to siphon some of his thoughts into the Pensieve.

Eventually, he just lay there not thinking of anything at all anymore, breathing in the traces of Hermione’s lavender shampoo, his brain echoing with merciful emptiness. Then Ron had finally rolled onto his back, giving Harry a little more room. Straightening his back and legs, Harry turned to face him.

Propped up on his elbow, Harry stared down at Ron, examining the swollen lump on his forehead and the dark bruising around his neck. Studying his features, his eyes mapped the freckles across Ron’s cheeks, his red eyelashes fanned against them. Then they were drawn to the fullness of his mouth. 

He’d never before looked at another man and felt the stirring of arousal. Unlike what he’d reluctantly experienced at the hands of Bellatrix, there had never been a single moment of pleasure in what those men had done to him. There was only pain and fear mixed with humiliation and revulsion. Why then would he desire Ron, knowing it would eventually escalate into that terrifying conclusion? 

He’d avoided probing those feelings until now, hoping that somehow, they would simply fade if he didn’t give them an audience in his thoughts, but he couldn’t any longer. Not after yesterday. 

Harry could explain his attraction to Hermione, but Ron was a totally different matter. Harry was still pretty sure he wasn’t gay and just as certain that Ron wasn’t, either. Yet however hard it was to reconcile himself to something that seemed so totally against his nature, Harry couldn’t deny it either. He should be repulsed by these unnatural cravings, aggressively resisting the pull of longing he was feeling for Ron, but he wasn’t. It was actually easier to accept.

Perhaps he was so much less afraid of Ron because even his fear of that pain couldn’t compare to the pain he’d felt with Hermione and the terrible memories she stirred in him. There was less betrayal in his feelings for Ron, too, even though he was Ginny’s brother. Harry’s attraction to him was more physical than emotional, which didn’t make it better really, but for whatever reason, seemed to ease his guilt.

After a few minutes of Harry’s quiet contemplation of his features, Ron stirred, stretching, but not really awake. Placing a hand on Ron’s stomach, Harry snaked it upwards, running his hands over the smooth skin of Ron’s chest, courting his own disaster. 

Opening his eyes, Ron blinked him into focus. “Hey,” he mumbled sleepily and then yawned hugely.

“I want to bury Dobby. Properly, without magic,” Harry announced without preamble.

 

* * *

 

Ron stared up at Harry a moment before rubbing his eyes. “All right. I told Bill not to touch him until we came back today. I went back to his place yesterday after you fell asleep,” he explained.

“I know.”

“So, how are you feeling today?” he asked quietly. “Your lip is really swollen. I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m okay… Better. Don’t worry about it. I was asking for it. I wanted it.”

“Do you still want it?”

“What, for you to beat the hell out of me?” Harry asked, snorting softly. “Why? Are you offering?”

“No, you prat! Of course not. I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want you to hurt yourself, either, Harry. I don’t want you to lock yourself in a room again and rip yourself apart,” he answered in a hoarse whisper.

Harry nodded, still running his fingers over Ron’s chest in lazy circles. Ron covered Harry’s hand with his own, staring at his troubled friend’s face. Then he slid it up Harry’s arm. Turning it, Ron examined the skin.

“Jesus, mate. Your arms are covered in bruises.”

“You should see your neck. It’s almost completely purple. Peter really choked you good.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t fucking breathe,” Ron replied as Harry pulled his arm out of Ron’s grip and tilted Ron’s head up by the chin to better examine the marks on his neck. “Speaking of not breathing,” he said then, looking up at Harry. “You were holding your breath yesterday weren’t you? You tried to get me to strangle you.”

Harry nodded his head, but looked away from Ron, pulling his hand away. 

“You’re neck was all bruised, too, when we first got out of the dungeon. She choked you didn’t she?”

Harry was silent for a few moments, but his eyes slid back to Ron’s. Ron watched them, searching for the crazy, for a better clue to his mental state, trying to gage what his response might be to bringing up Bellatrix.

“The only way she could make me come was to strangle an orgasm out of me,” Harry admitted. “I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop it.”

Christ! Could he be anymore fucked up? As if Harry’s torture could be any worse than the mental pictures Ron already had of it, suddenly, Harry would reveal something more. Each exposure of the true depth of the Death Eaters twisted depravity made the horror he’d endured even more painful for Ron to comprehend, made his desire for revenge that much greater.

“You did it that day in the shower, too, didn’t you?” Ron asked then, but he didn’t wait for a response. “It’s not safe, Harry. It’s dangerous and destructive for you, and you don’t need it. You didn’t need it before her, did you?”

“No.” 

“Then you don’t need it now, either. Don’t do it anymore, okay?”

Harry didn’t answer, but gave a quick nod of his head after a moment.

“Is that why you were trying so hard to strangle her yesterday?”

Harry became agitated then at the mention of his actions yesterday. “I don’t know, Ron. I guess so, yeah. I really had no idea what I was doing with her. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I’m sorry for getting us in there again, for getting you hurt. But when I saw her—”

“Say her name,” Ron ordered.

Harry looked at him, frowning. “Ron—”

“I want to hear you say her name.”

“No.  I don’t want to.” 

“You tried to fuck her yesterday. Call me old-fashioned, but I think you ought to at least be on a first name basis. Bellatrix, say it!” he demanded.

Harry flinched. “Stop it, you prick!”

“Not until you say it.”

Scowling at Ron, Harry was starting to get angry now. “Fine… Bellatrix,” he muttered, barely audible, and then tried to repress a shudder. 

“That’s not nearly good enough. Say it again.”

“Fuck you.”

Ron smiled. “No. Fuck her!” he retorted. “Fuck Bellatrix, Harry. She doesn’t have any power over you anymore. She doesn’t control you, so stop letting her. You weren’t afraid of her yesterday. Bellatrix was afraid of you.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just stared at Ron. Then, to Ron’s surprise, Harry slid down next to him. Stretching out beside him, Harry kissed him once quickly, somewhat shyly, before he began licking his way up Ron’s bruised throat. The rough stubble on his chin scratched against Ron’s tender skin. Placing a hand at his back between his shoulders, Ron pulled Harry against his chest. 

God, he was warm and felt so good. Maybe it was just a dream, but having Harry here next to him like this, apparently sane and possibly seducing him after the terror of yesterday, was like a miracle. It was a gift, and Ron couldn’t wrap his head around it. If it was a dream, he decided to stop trying to comprehend it, happy to simply let it continue.

“You taste salty,” Harry commented, murmuring the words against Ron’s damp neck as Ron stroked his back.

Soon, Harry was completely on top of Ron, sitting on his thighs, his hands tangled in Ron’s hair. Ron was propped up on his elbows underneath him as Harry had been the night before while Harry snogged him, their tongues dueling.

“I’m glad you changed your mind, Harry… about us,” Ron said breathlessly when they broke apart.

“I don’t know that I have. I’m just too weak and selfish to say no anymore, and I can’t undo what’s already happened between us. Well, more between me and Hermione. You were left out a bit yesterday. I’m sorry about that.”

“I was there and plenty involved.”

“For some of it, yeah, but still, I can fix that. I can… you know, finish what I started in the bathroom if you want.” Harry went a bit red at his proposition even though he was sitting naked and hard in Ron’s lap. He kissed Ron again to cover his embarrassment, but Ron pulled away to look at him.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. What happened yesterday was for you. It was crazy and scary, and it doesn’t have to happen again if you don’t want it to.”

“And if I want it to?”

“I think you’d say that even if you don’t mean it.” He put a retraining hand to Harry’s arm. “Listen, you believe you can’t step back now, but you can. You said we can’t undo what’s happened, but we don’t have to go any further.”

“Changed your mind about this?” Harry asked, waving a hand between them.

“No, of course not!  I just don’t want to make things worse, Harry. I don’t want you to be with us because you feel obligated, or to be here, doing this with me now out of guilt, or as some sort of debt repayment. I don’t want you like that. I don’t want you to regret this.”

“You don’t want me anymore?” Harry asked, sitting up fully and climbing back off Ron, mistaking Ron’s concerns for rejection.

“Don’t be stupid. Do I look like I don’t want you?” Ron asked incredulously, gesturing to his obvious arousal.

“Then lie back,” Harry whispered, scooting down Ron’s body. “And shut up.”

“It’s just, you know, sometimes… if you felt like… in the light of day—” His breath hitched and his stomach clenched as Harry’s breath blew across his thighs. “A mistake… I don’t want—”

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry warned, wrapping his fingers around the base of Ron’s erect cock to pull it towards him.

This dream had suddenly become very intense.

“We can go slow—”

“Are you afraid?” Harry whispered, arching an eyebrow as he stared up at Ron.

“Fuck, yes!” Ron moaned, trembling all over.

“Good.”

Harry grinned up at him, and then touched the tip of his tongue to the head of Ron’s cock, ending his protests. Ron let out a tiny squeak, clutching the sheets, but his eyes were wide, watching. Then he squeezed them shut and shuddered as Harry took him into his hot, wet mouth.

* * *

 

 

Ron’s whole body had gone rigid when Harry wrapped his lips around the head of Ron’s cock and sucked him into his mouth. Relaxing his neck, Harry forced his head down, and Ron slid slowly down his throat. Then, when he’d taken his full length, Harry bit down around the base, and Ron shuddered. His eyes were still squeezed shut while he uttered a stream of hissed curses.

Engulfing every inch of Ron, Harry held himself there, unable to breathe around his girth, but he wasn’t panicked. Ron wasn’t holding his head down, wasn’t forcing him. Harry could remove the obstruction whenever he wanted, and he didn’t want to just yet. Controlling his gag reflexes, he patiently waited until Ron opened his eyes and looked down at him. Then he finally pulled back, watching Ron’s reaction before slowly repeating the process again a second time.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Ron moaned, clutching at Harry’s head and gripping a handful of his hair in his fist when Harry’s throat muscles squeezed and he swallowed around him. “You mother fucker!”

Taking that as a sign of approval, Harry finally began to move, sliding his hand up to wrap it around Ron’s throbbing cock. Perhaps Snape had been right, and Harry was a natural at performing fellatio. Something to pad his resume with later, he thought in dark amusement, smiling as he pulled back, swallowed, and went down again.

It wasn’t long before Ron had released his hair and clutched the sheet again, instead, letting Harry move more freely and with more speed. Harry continued to suck Ron off with the technique he’d learned in the dungeon. Sliding Ron’s shaft through his fist with every retreat of his lips and tongue, and back down again at their advance, he kept up the constant pressure around him with his firm grip while Ron bit down on his own lips to stifle the sounds he was emitting. Then Harry could feel the head of Ron’s cock starting to flare against his tongue. Ron was gasping, pumping his hips now, so close to his release that he was unable to stop himself trying to hump Harry’s face. So Harry let him. Stilling, he braced himself and sealed his lips around Ron, relaxing his throat and allowing Ron to thrust through his fist and into his mouth while he ran his tongue around the sensitive rim. 

When Ron’s rhythm became more erratic and he was whimpering pleas and warnings of his impending orgasm, Harry tried to help coax it out of him. Sliding a thumb under his tightened balls, he stroked his perineum firmly with his free hand. Ron let out a strangled cry, a mixture of surprise and pleasure, and after a few more shallow strokes, he squeezed his eyes closed again and came with a deep groan, his whole body shuddering and quaking.

Harry could have pulled back and finished Ron with just his hand, but he didn’t really want to, so he’d let Ron fill his mouth. When the contractions stopped and he was spent, Harry applied suction again, making Ron utter more curses. He knew how sensitive he would be, but he was trying to release Ron without dribbling all over his stomach, and it was hard to do with his head facing down and all the fluid trapped against his swollen lips. Not wanting to spit it out onto Ron or the floor, Harry swallowed. It was warm, of course, and slightly bitter.

Wiping his mouth as he crawled back up the bed and sat on his knees, he felt for the first time that he may have done a good job with something in this arena, for once. 

“You taste better than Snape,” he announced hoarsely, his throat slightly raw. 

“Shut up!” Ron growled, outraged. “Why would you mention that? God Damn, Harry! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Harry shrugged. “The list is pretty long, but if you really want to hear it,” he replied, raising his eyebrows as his voice trailed off.

“You just totally killed my buzz mentioning him, you prat, and this was the best dream ever. Now I feel like an arse.”

“We’re not asleep, you idiot. At least I’m not.  And you started it, you know, by bringing her up. That killed mine.”

“Bringing up who?” Ron asked innocently.

Harry scowled at him. “Bellatrix.”

“Oh, that’s right. So I did.” Ron slid an arm under his head and rested a hand on his stomach, watching Harry. “You know, now I’ve experienced it, I think I know why Snape was trying to save you after all. I knew it wasn’t some crap about loyalty to Dumbledore. If you did anything to him like you just did to me, Snape planned to get you out of there and keep you all for himself, which just makes me want to kill the bastard even more.”

“Well, if he asked to meet me because he thought I might be grateful and would agree to be his pet boy, he was badly mistaken.”

Grinning at Harry, Ron patted the bed beside him.

“No, I have to get up. I need the loo. And we need to get to Bill’s.”

“It can wait, you’re supposed to cuddle with me,” he said, chuckling. “Hermione always does.”

“She’s right there,” Harry protested, pointing to Hermione who was curled up, pretending to still be asleep, facing away from them. “Go cuddle her.”

“No. This is my dream, and I want my post coitus pillow talk,” Ron whined petulantly, placing his hand on Harry’s thigh.

“Oh, God! This isn’t going to get weird is it?” Harry asked, alarmed.

“Nah, this isn’t weird,” Ron replied with heavy sarcasm, waving a hand between them and grinning hugely.

“You know what I mean. I’m not your boyfriend, or whatever, Won-Won. Don’t expect me to start holding your hand or snogging you in public, or something,” he warned.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, cause that’s what I do with Hermione.”

Harry stared at him. “I just don’t know what you expect from me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to this.”

“React to this? You started it! Both yesterday and today!” Ron replied incredulously. “All I ever did was snog you.”

“Please, you know you started all of this, and you were working towards a lot more than snogging,” Harry accused.

  “Fine. I can’t deny that. But look, I’m not going to ask you to sit on my lap or anything at Bill’s today, Harry. Stop freaking out. What we do here in private, is private. It’s between you and me and Hermione. And when we leave this room or this house, it stays here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“But while you’re here with me, naked, after you just sucked me off, you could show me a little affection,” he added, pouting. “You’re making me feel dirty and used.”

“Shut up,” Harry scoffed. 

“Seriously, though,” Ron began then, the smile sliding off his face, turning pensive. “I want to talk about yesterday, about some of the things you said when you were trying to pull your arms out of their sockets to get away from me.”

“Haven’t I endured enough therapy for one morning, Ron?” Harry asked, exasperated. “You already made me talk about her, made me say her name. That’s progress, right? Pat yourself on the back and give it a rest for awhile.”

“No. I want to know about this monster inside you. This Dementor, or whatever.”

Harry froze, his eyes slowly finding Ron’s. He’d been caught off guard. Their light banter had left him unprepared for the questions. Lulled into thinking he might get away without having to discuss this, Harry felt manipulated by Ron, and it irritated him.

“You don’t really think that do you? It was just crazy talk yesterday, right? From the moon, and seeing her, and being back there. You said you were trying to get the poison out, you tried to show it to us, as if you thought you could actually see it, or something. Tell me about that.”

“I… you saw what I was like. You saw it come out of me. I wasn’t myself then. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m becoming something else, Ron… something terrible.”

“What I saw was a man traumatized so much by all that’s been done to him that he snapped. A boy that has suffered for so long that he couldn’t take it anymore and fought back against the people that had hurt him. That’s all,” Ron replied firmly.

“I killed one person, attempted to kill another and then watched as a third died without trying to stop it. I sexually assaulted two people. I almost got my best friends killed, did get another friend killed, before finally trying again and failing again to kill myself. Then I rounded out my epic meltdown of a morning by having sex with those same two friends before finally collapsing,” Harry recited quickly. “Does that about sum it up? Did I miss anything, Ron? You tell me, if it wasn’t me that had done all that; wouldn’t you think that person was a monster?  And now you want to cuddle with me like I’m just a cute little fluffy bunny, or something.”

“Well, maybe more like a bunny with fangs. You did bite me earlier.”

Harry glared at him.

“Look, Harry, you weren’t yourself. I’ll admit—”

“You’re deluding yourself.”

“Listen to me. These people, what they did to you… It would make anyone go crazy when they saw them again. And you’ve been struggling lately, not sleeping. And with the moon…  It doesn’t make you a monster. A horny vigilante, perhaps. A man bent on revenge, but I completely agree with you on that score. I want to help with it, actually. As for the sexual assaults, Bellatrix had it coming, and I certainly didn’t mind mine. It was a right sight better than what you were doing before that. So you’re a little fucked up. We all are.”

Harry just stared at Ron a minute in dumbfounded disbelief. Then he pulled Ron by the arm so that he would sit up. Flipping Ron’s hand over, Harry slid his fingers over the circular scar on his chest. “Can you feel that?” he whispered.

“I feel the scar, Harry, yes.”

“No. Do you feel how cold it is, how dead the skin is?”

“No, mate, I don’t. It feels warm, like the rest of you.”

“It feels cold to me, numb and it’s pumping the blackness into my veins, seeping into the rest of me.”

“Harry, it’s just damaged nerves. There isn’t anything in there. And your blood runs pure red. I know. I’ve seen enough of it.”

“Then why the fever? Why is my body fighting against it?” he argued. “It’s an infection, Ron. An infection that Madame Pomfrey can’t kill because it’s already dead.”

“Do you want to know what I think the fever’s from?” Ron asked. “I think it’s your magic. I think it’s those flames inside you. It’s your power, Harry. The power you’re holding inside. I don’t think for a second you’re a harmless fluffy bunny. I think you’re a damn powerful wizard.”

Harry remained silent, still holding Ron’s hand to his chest, while he considered his words. Ron ran his thumb over Harry’s nipple then, and Harry shivered involuntarily, looking back at him.

“Hermione would probably say we’re both wrong. She’d say it’s just a side effect of the bites. That the wolf, as you called it, is the only thing that’s inside you and that the fever is a side effect of a more rapid metabolism, or something, healing you faster. And if that’s the case, Harry, it’s not a bad thing. I mean, other than you going completely mental once a month from now on.”

“You’re completely mental, Ron.”

“I must be to put up with you.” Ron rolled off the bed then and pulled Harry by the arm. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

“What?”

“Just come here,” Ron insisted, tugging again on Harry’s arm.

Harry complied, crawling out of the bed and following Ron’s naked form into the loo. The bathroom was still in shambles from yesterday, the mirror shattered, his blood smeared on most of the surfaces in the room, which had dried to a rusty brown color.

“Watch your step.”

“What are we doing?”

Ron didn’t reply. Picking up a sliver of the broken mirror, he held out his hand to Harry, who after a bewildered second, placed his own hand into Ron’s. Ron squeezed it briefly and then slid the sharp edge along the tip of Harry’s middle finger. Blood welled immediately with the pressure Ron was applying.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“Blood,” Harry replied, nonplussed.

“Look at it. What color is it?”

Harry didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the blood as it welled up and slid down the side of his finger.

“Is it black?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered hesitantly. He thought it might be. It wasn’t pure red, he was sure.

Ron released his hand, slid the glass over his own finger, and then placed it next to Harry’s. “Now, what color is mine?”

Harry looked between them, frowning. “It’s red.”

“Can you tell a difference?”

“I don’t know, Ron,” he said again uncertainly. “Maybe… yes.”

“Close your eyes,” Ron ordered then.

Harry did, though he was getting exasperated again. Flipping Harry’s hand over, Ron squeezed the tip of his finger. Then he told Harry to open them again.

“Okay, now, tell me, which is your blood, and which is mine?”

Five or six drops of blood had been dripped in the sink, sliding towards the mouth of the basin. Harry stared at the identical blood for a long time, brow furrowed, before speaking. “It’s all mine,” he answered, sure that this was some trick of Ron’s to confuse him, to make him think that Ron had dripped his own blood in the sink alongside Harry’s.

“Wrong,” Ron replied, opening his hand. “It’s all mine. I dripped yours in my other hand.”

Harry stared at the blood in Ron’s palm for a moment in confusion and then up into his face as Ron turned on the tap.

“It’s in your head, mate,” he assured Harry as he rinsed Harry’s blood off his hand and his own out of the sink. “It’s not real, okay? There’s nothing inside you. Nothing is in your blood. No black infection. All right?”

Harry was silent for a long while, still staring into the now clean sink basin. Then he finally looked up into Ron’s eyes and nodded, though he still felt unsure.

“Good. No more talk of black poison and Dementors then, and if you ever take a sharp object to yourself again, I will beat the living shit out of you. I’m not kidding,” he said sternly, poking Harry in the chest. “Got it?”

Harry nodded.

“Good. Now, come on, let’s get a shower.” Ron pushed Harry towards the tub, slapping him lightly on the arse, and then followed him in. “It’s my turn to see what you taste like.”

~ . ~


	35. Of Wizard Tales and Wandlore

It was barely dawn, but Hermione was awake. She rolled over as soon as the boys left the bed, watching as they entered the bathroom together. She’d been lying there, listening through most of their exchange this morning, but feinting sleep, eavesdropping on their conversation. Excited by the sounds of Ron’s pleasure she was hearing, desperately aroused and terribly curious, she wanted to turn over and watch because he was obviously enjoying what Harry was doing to him. She wanted to see the expression on Ron’s face, watch him orgasm with Harry’s mouth on him, but she was afraid to interrupt their intimate moments or disturb their private discussions. 

Harry wasn’t fooled, however. He’d known she was awake, but in the end, she was glad she hadn’t given into temptation. If she had, their second exchange might not have happened. She found herself surprisingly impressed with Ron, at the way he’d handled Harry. How he’d tried to get him to talk about some of his more troubling thoughts and actions yesterday despite Harry’s obvious reluctance. Harry had called it more therapy. Doctor Ron, indeed. Their approach with Harry couldn’t be more different, but there was no denying that Ron’s method was effective.

While she could still hear them talking quietly in the loo together, she could no longer make out the words. Shifting on the bed for a better look, Hermione scooted to the edge to try and peer through the open door. She caught a brief glimpse of Ron from the side before he gave Harry a quick slap on the bum and then followed him into the tub.

Left unsatisfied and achingly aroused, but starving as she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday, Hermione got up when she heard the taps come on. She would have liked to have joined them in the shower, her mind full of erotic images of their wet bodies rubbing together as Ron reciprocated, but instead, she decided to grab a quick one downstairs and get something rounded up for breakfast. They were likely to be a while if her previous experiences with Ron were any indication, and she didn’t want to dawdle and leave Harry to scrounge for his own meal in a kitchen that would feel so empty, making him acutely aware of Dobby’s absence. 

It hadn’t mattered, however. When the boys had finally come downstairs, Harry refused to eat anything at all, insisting he wasn’t hungry. Then he grew agitated, nettled at having them delay his planned trip back to the seaside cottage. There was a fire in his eyes and a twitch in his limbs. He was full of nervous energy and restlessness. 

While she and Ron ate the eggs she’d scrambled and toast, Harry removed all the objects from his Mokeskin pouch. Pulling them out one by one, he examined them carefully as if he were seeing them for the first time. He placed his mother’s letter on the table unread with the Marauder’s Map, but studied the glass phial full of swirling silver memories, then the golden Snitch. Next he examined the broken halves of his wand for a long time, lightly running his fingers over the fractured wood, before setting it on the table while she and Ron watched curiously. Finally he pulled out the broken mirror shard, which made Ron’s shoulders tense and his lips form a thin white line, worried perhaps that Harry would erupt again into madness and rake it across his skin suddenly as he had yesterday. Fearful maybe, that the temptation would be too great for him to resist, but Harry merely turned the fragment in his fingers, the reflective surface catching the light as he tilted it. He rubbed his thumb over it, sighing heavily before placing it on the table to join the rest of the odd assortment. Then he frowned down at them all, chewing on his torn lip, running his tongue along the healing tear in it absently.

When he could glean nothing more from his treasured items, Harry replaced them again, one by one, back into the pouch, pulled it over his head, and tucked it down the front of his jumper. Then he got to his feet with a sigh, rubbing at his scar. “We need to go,” he announced.

“You want to tell me what that was about first?” Ron asked, pointing at Harry’s chest with his fork to where the pouch had created a small bulge in the fabric.

“I don’t want to say. I’m not really sure yet.”

“Well, that makes me feel better. What about that?” he questioned again, pointing now at the scar on Harry’s head.

Harry didn’t respond to that, but instead replied, “You said Ollivander’s at Shell Cottage. Do you think he’ll be able to speak to us?”

“Dunno. I didn’t talk to him yesterday when I was there. He was already resting in one of the bedrooms, but Bill said he’s in pretty bad shape.”

“He was barely conscious when I found him, Harry,” Hermione added. “It may be a few days before he’s recovered enough.”

“I can’t wait that long. I need to see him today if he’s able. I need to see him right now.”

“What for?” she asked. “Harry, I don’t think he’ll be able to mend your wand.”

“It’s not that. I’ll explain after we’ve seen him, all right? Are you two ready?”

Hermione shared a worried look with Ron as they both got to their feet.

“Where’s my jacket?” Harry asked. “Have either of you seen it?”

“Harry, you left it at Bill’s. Don’t you remember? You took it off to…” She trailed off, seeing the comprehension and the memories flooding into Harry.

“I brought it back from Bill’s yesterday, but it was damp and covered in sand and, you know, other stuff,” Ron explained, grimacing apologetically. “I didn’t think to try and clean it when I got back. I just hung it up in the foyer.”

“Fine. It’s fine,” Harry said dully. “I’ll just… I’ll just go without today. What about my wand. I can’t seem to find where I flung it yesterday, either.”

“You’ve lost your wand?” Hermione asked in surprise.

“Well I don’t really remember everything that happed too clearly once we left here yesterday morning, and then after I came back, but it’s not in the bathroom or Sirius’ bedroom. I checked the stairs on the way down as well, but I didn’t see it. I figure I had to have dropped it somewhere.”

“I didn’t see it this morning when I picked up the mess on the stairs,” Hermione told him.

“Is that what happened to the elves heads?” Harry asked. “Did I rip them all down?”

Neither Ron nor Hermione answered.

“I don’t remember doing that,” he admitted heavily.

“Come on then, I’ll help you look for it,” Ron offered, waving a hand for Harry to lead the way out of the kitchen, perhaps hoping to distract Harry from more thoughts of yesterday morning as he stood up.

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione called with a roll of her eyes as she followed them into the hallway, pulling out her own wand. “We’ll just summon it. _Accio_ Harry’s wand.”

Two wands came zooming out of Harry’s coat pocket from the other end of the hall and landed in Hermione’s outstretched hand, where they all stared at them in astonishment before looking back to Harry.

“I… I must have put them in my pocket before I took off the jacket. Dobby had fallen into my arms before I even knew where we were, and then I realized he was bleeding,” he whispered, the horror of it showing in his eyes. “I wrapped him in the jacket to keep him warm, because he was so pale and shaking. Then I pulled the knife out of his chest and tried to stop the flow with my hand, but I couldn’t. I called for help. I didn’t know what else to do. He said my name, and then he just died, staring up at me.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, and she choked on a sob. Ron grabbed her hand and squeezed, but Harry just looked dazed at the memory.

“I Apparated here without it, didn’t I?” Harry asked in dawning comprehension.

“It’s not the first time, mate. You did quite a lot of magic yesterday without using your wand.”

“No I didn’t. I had my wand until then.”

“Yes, but did you use it to actually cast a spell? Did you even say or think the incantations?” Ron asked.

“I did on Rowle.”

“Was that who that was?” Ron asked. “Good. Bastard had it coming.”

“Harry,” Hermione began, frowning at Ron. “Is this… is this _her_ wand?”

He looked down at the wands Hermione was holding out to him. “Yes. It has to be.”

“That reminds me,” Ron interjected. “The one you lent me, Hermione. Where did you get it?”

“It was Mrs. Malfoy’s wand, from when I disarmed her.”

“Couldn’t be.”

“Of course it is. Why not?”

“Because it’s the blackthorn wand I took off that snatcher bloke.”

Pulling it out of his back pocket, Ron showed it to them. Hermione stared at it in mild surprise. It was indeed the wand that Ron had taken from the snatchers and given to Harry months ago after Hermione had broken his wand. The same wand that Harry had swapped for Draco’s on the train.

“Well I don’t know why she had it, but that’s both of the Black sisters without wands now and no captive wand maker they can torture into making them another,” Hermione told them in some satisfaction.

“Pettigrew’s wand was still there so they have at least one between them,” Ron contradicted her. “It never even occurred to me to pick it up.”

“Come on,” Harry interrupted, wincing and rubbing at his scar again. “We need to go.” Holding his hand out for the wands, Hermione handed both to him. Harry rolled them in his palm a moment, and then looked back at her and Ron. “You summoned my wand and both of these came. Neither belongs to me,” he said, examining them again before pocketing Bellatrix’s. “I really need to speak to Ollivander.”

A few minutes later, they were standing on the cliff top overlooking the ocean, the wind blowing the hair back off their faces. Harry stood with his arms wrapped around himself against the chill morning air, staring down at the undulating waves of water below which were lapping at the sand as if he was searching for the evidence of what had happened yesterday. Their footprints, Dobby’s body, or splattered blood, but the traces had all been wiped away, made new again by the sea, leaving the sand unmarked like a clean, blank piece of parchment.  

Stepping close to Harry, Ron placed a hand at his shoulder and squeezed. “You sure you’re all right? We can give this a bit more time, mate.”

“No. I need to do it now.”

Ron glanced back at her again, but didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded and turned towards the house and began making his way there. She and Harry followed.

It was still very early in the morning when Ron knocked on the weathered front door, but they could hear the scraping of chairs and hurried footsteps.

“Who’s there?” came Bill’s gruff call from the other side of the door.

Hermione saw the curtains of the kitchen window pulled back as someone peered out at them.

“It’s me, Ron… your brother, and I have Harry and Hermione with me,” Ron answered. “We came yesterday and brought your current unexpected house guests. And when I left the second time, I was a lot more polite than the first. I also promised we’d be back today.”

Apparently satisfied that Ron was truly who he claimed to be, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open. “You didn’t say you’d be back at daybreak,” Bill said accusingly in whispered greeting, opening the door wider to admit them.

“Please, dawn was over an hour ago,” Ron replied with a roll of his eyes, stepping over the threshold.

“Well, I didn’t expect you this early. It’s only Fleur and me up, trying to bang something together for breakfast. It’s not ready yet, so you’ll have to wait for a bit if you’re hungry, but there’s coffee brewing.”

“Hermione and I have already eaten, but Harry could do with something.”

“No. Please, Bill. I’m fine,” Harry argued, throwing Ron a vicious glare, which Ron shrugged off unapologetically.

“Some coffee then,” Bill replied, leading them quietly through the dark hallway to the kitchen, past a sleeping form on the couch. “We put Dean in with the goblin. Ollivander’s in the other bedroom so Luna took the couch last night,” he said quietly in explanation.

“How are they?” Harry asked.

“Dean and Luna are going to be just fine. But it will be a while before Griphook and Ollivander are out of the woods. Griphook is still in and out of consciousness. Fleur is keeping him pretty heavily sedated while the Skele-Gro finishes its work. And they had Mr. Ollivander in chains, tortured and starved for over a year. It’s going to take some time for him to recover, if he ever does. He’s quite old.”

“’Arry,” Fleur called throatily, getting up hurriedly from the table to kiss him on both cheeks when they entered the kitchen. She appeared genuinely happy to see them. Especially Harry. 

Still in her dressing gown with her hair uncombed, and yet Fleur still looked stunning. It simply wasn’t fair, Hermione thought with a twinge of irritation. Fleur could be covered in dung and still look radiant. Standing next to her always made Hermione feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly step sisters at the ball; all frizzy curls and skinny ankles. Marriage to Bill had seemed to soften some of her hard edges though, and she was beginning to grow on Hermione in spite of herself. It wasn’t Fleur’s fault that she was blessed with ample beauty and Hermione with ample brains.

Hermione had never much cared about her own looks. Her jealousy and dislike for this woman had more to do with how Ron had first reacted to her than anything Fleur had ever done. Now she thought on it, she realized Fleur’s initial frosty demeanor and aloof attitude probably had been a learned defensive mechanism against other women who would automatically hate her for her appearance and for how men favored her. What other girl would have wanted to be her friend? Destined to be passed over, invisible to every boy’s eyes, who would choose that? Not many, she thought. Hermione knew she was close to her sister, Gabrielle, but did Fleur have any other friends? Had she ever? Perhaps she had in early childhood, before one’s looks and boys mattered. Hermione, herself had been friendless before she’d met Ron and Harry so she knew that feeling of isolation well, having suffered through it all throughout primary school. 

Thinking back over her fourth year, Hermione tried to remember if any of the other girls from Beauxbaton’s had been friends with Fleur, but all she could remember were their looks of bitter jealousy when she’d been chosen to compete in the Tri-Wizard tournament and they had not. Forced to compete with their gorgeous classmate and passed over yet again, judged less desirable even by an inanimate object with no eyes. For the first time in her life, Hermione actually felt sorry for Bill’s beautiful wife, the object of so much scorn for other women’s own insecurities.

Fleur hugged Hermione and Ron before turning back to Harry. “I am so glad to see zat you are all right. We were very worried.” Placing both hands on Harry’s face, Fleur tilted his head back to better examine him with the light streaming in from the kitchen window. Running her thumb along his bottom lip, she clucked her tongue and then checked his face for more damage, smoothing the hair off his forehead before Harry could extricate himself from her. “You ‘ave a fever,” she pronounced worriedly.

“I’m fine, Fleur,” Harry assured her, pulling her hands away from his face by the wrists. “Thank you,” he added gratefully when Bill intervened to rescue him, stepping between them and handing Harry a mug of black coffee. 

Their eyes met for a long moment before Bill released his grip on the cup. Then he squeezed Harry’s shoulder as Ron had done earlier.

Hermione knew Harry had only accepted the coffee to keep from being rude. He looked relieved when Fleur, frowning slightly with concern, had turned back to the table. Clearly he’d been uncomfortable with having her touch him. Or possibly his scar was causing him pain, and he simply didn’t want her touching it. Hermione could see that it was dark red against his pale complexion when Fleur’s hand had passed over it. Darker than it had been at Number Twelve earlier, growing more painful, it seemed. Hermione wondered why. Harry was obviously struggling to keep Voldemort out, but surely his fury at their escape and the loss of his prisoners and Wormtail had abated by now. What thoughts or emotions could The Dark Lord be having that would cause Harry pain?

“Come, sit down. Bill and I usually ’ave le petit déjeuner, but az zere are so many ‘ungry people ‘ere.”

“A small breakfast,” Hermione explained at Ron and Harry’s blank look. “The French don’t eat meat or eggs with their breakfast. They normally have pastries, and sometimes add some fresh fruit.”

“Correct,” Fleur agreed, offering a basket of baguettes to Harry, who took one at her stern look. “Zere is jam if you like.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“I had the most delicious chocolate croissants on holiday once,” Hermione continued, wistfully. 

It had been one of her favorite holidays with her parents and one of her last, she realized achingly. God, she missed her parents, feared for them, wondered if they yearned for her even though they didn’t remember her with the charm she’d placed on them. Selfishly, she hoped that some part of them could feel her absence in their lives as deeply as she felt theirs.

“Pain au chocolat,” Fleur sighed longingly. “Gabrielle’s favorite. Papa brings ‘er one from ze bakery every Sunday.”

"Yes, well Fleur tells me none of the bakeries around here makes anything that compares, so I thought I’d whip up something a bit more English traditional for our guests,” Bill said over his shoulder, cracking an egg into a waiting skillet which was already sizzling with several fat sausages. 

It smelled wonderful, and although Hermione had already eaten, her mouth watered. The aroma and talk of food must have been making Harry’s empty stomach growl as well, and he took a bite of his baguette to silence it.

“Bill, Fleur, I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve put you through. I just didn’t know where else to send them,” Hermione apologized. “They needed medical attention—”

“All of you did,” Bill interrupted; glancing at Ron’s bruised face and neck.

"Yes. But thank you for opening your home to them. I know it was a lot to ask of you both.”

“Pas du tout,” Fleur said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Yes, it’s not a problem, love,” Bill agreed. “We’re happy to help. However we can,” he added, looking back to Harry again.

“Right, well, as to that, Bill,” Harry began, clearing his throat nervously and setting down his coffee. “I need to speak to Mr. Ollivander if he’s able.”

“Absolument pas!” Fleur replied quickly. “’Arry, ’e is very ill.”

“I understand, but it’s important. Is he conscious?”

“Oui, but—”

“Can’t it wait until after breakfast at least?” Bill asked. “I was just about to make him some porridge.”

“I highly recommend it,” Harry agreed, looking pained. “But it won’t take long, I promise. I might even be finished before its ready. Please. I really need to speak with him urgently.”

Bill and Fleur shared a look, and then with a sigh, Bill passed her the spatula. “All right, Harry. He’s this way.”

The three of them followed Bill. In front of her, Harry’s steps faltered, and he paused at a small table where a bundle lay wrapped in white linens. It was Dobby’s body, Hermione realized with a pang, the heavy price for their freedom. Reaching out, Harry brushed the fabric tentatively with the tips of his fingers, and the pang in her chest grew into a burning, throbbing ache, constricting her breath. He rested his palm on it for a moment, before sighing heavily and walking on. Hermione followed, blinking the wetness out of her eyes, and trying to swallow past the obstruction in her throat.

Bill led them up the stairs to the bedroom with the view of the ocean and knocked quietly on the door before opening it.

“Mr. Ollivander, I hate to disturb you, but you have a few visitors who would like a word if that’s all right.”

Hermione couldn’t hear the reply, but apparently he’d agreed as Bill opened the door wider and ushered them in with a wave of his hand.

Mr. Ollivander looked shockingly fragile, his body painfully thin, when Hermione caught sight of him. Propped up on the bed in just his dressing gown with his long wispy white hair tangled from sleep, he looked ancient. The cold morning light shining in through the window only accentuated the deep lines etched into his weathered face, and his skin, which was parchment-thin, seemed to hang off him in folds like a deflated balloon. His hands were folded in his lap, and his arms were covered in a rash, the skin flaking off. He was ghostlike, nearly translucent from so long without sunlight which made the blue veins crisscrossing under the surface stand out prominently.

Hesitating, as if afraid that simply asking Ollivander to speak would be too much for him, Harry cleared his throat softly as Bill shut the door behind them. Ron and Hermione sat on the spare bed against the wall when the old wizard motioned with a gnarled, bony hand for Harry to sit. 

“Harry Potter,” he wheezed, when Harry took the chair near the window as indicated. “How may I help you?”

Harry only spoke to the wizened wand maker for about fifteen minutes, questioning him about the wands he carried and asking him to identify them, which Mr. Ollivander did correctly. Then Harry asked Mr. Ollivander about his holly and phoenix feather wand and Voldemort’s and the unusual connection between them. Finally, he asked him about the Elder Wand and all he knew about wand lore. 

To Hermione’s great astonishment, Mr. Ollivander agreed that the Elder Wand did in fact exist. He admitted that he had told, under torture, all he knew of it and who had been rumored to possess it. The frail wizard was clearly distressed, even fearful at how much Harry already knew about what he’d been forced to share with The Dark Lord, though Harry had been kind and tried to keep him calm, reassuring him throughout the brief discussion. 

Then, having heard someone approaching before any of the rest of them, Harry turned to the door and stood up a moment before Hermione heard a soft rapping of knuckles against the wood. The door cracked open, and Fleur peered inside, carrying a breakfast tray. Hermione and Ron got to their feet as well then, the interview apparently over, and they made to leave. 

“One last question, sir, and then we’ll leave you to have your breakfast,” Harry said, stepping aside to let Fleur into the room.

The old man nodded.

“Sir, what do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”

“The what?” Mr. Ollivander asked in genuine confusion. “I don’t know what… Is this something more to do with wands?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

“They tortured me,” he whispered hoarsely, not for the first time. His face was almost chalk white as he pleaded with Harry for understanding. His skeletally thin hands gripped the blankets to control his shaking limbs, and the deep lines in his face and sunken eyes contorted into a mask of misery. “You have no idea—”

“I do, sir. Truly, I do understand,” Harry replied softly.

That was the understatement of the century, Hermione thought. If anyone understood what kind of torture Voldemort and his Death Eaters were capable of inflicting, it was Harry. 

Ollivander’s pale blue eyes grew wide in dawning comprehension as they searched Harry’s face. “It was you. Wasn’t it? I thought whoever it was must surely have died. I could hear the screaming—”

“Thank you again, sir,” Harry interrupted, his face blanching slightly as he gripped the doorknob. “Please, get some rest. It’s over now, and you’re safe.”

Hermione and Ron quickly left the room, and Harry closed the door behind them. Then they both turned to look at him in question and concern.

“Not here,” he whispered, rubbing furiously at his scar which was apparently causing him a great deal of pain. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

“The only room not currently occupied is the loo,” Ron replied.

“That will do.”

When they’d all piled into the small lavatory, Hermione locked the door and Harry cast a Muffliato before wetting a rag with cold water and seating himself on the toilet. With shaking hands, he pressed it to his burning scar and moaned in relief.

“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione knew he’d been struggling with the pain since they arrived, but only now with just the two of them to see it, did Harry truly let some of it show.

“Yeah, listen. I don’t have a lot of time to tell you this.” He motioned for them to sit, and they did, sitting side by side on the edge of the bathtub.

“What do you mean you don’t have much time?” she asked in growing alarm.

“Dumbledore had the Elder Wand,” Harry blurted quickly, and then grimaced in pain.

Hermione’s mouth opened in shock. “You can’t be serious, Harry. Dumbledore?”

“Yes, Dumbledore. He and Grindelwald were obsessed with the Hallows when they were our age. Sometime after Dumbledore’s sister died and their friendship ended, Grindelwald set out to find the wand, stealing it from Gregoravitch, the wand-maker, who’d bragged to too many people that he had it. Ollivander told V... told Tom about that rumor under torture, and he went searching him out. When he found Gregoravitch and realized it had been stolen from him, Riddle killed him and then went looking for the identity of the thief. That thief was Grindelwald.”

“Harry, I just can’t believe that the Elder Wand is real. It’s just a piece of wizarding folklore, a children’s morality tale. It can’t be real,” she argued desperately.

“The Hallows are real, Hermione. I have the cloak and the Resurrection stone, too, I think, and Mr. Ollivander just told us that the Elder Wand was real.”

“Yes, but there’s no proof that—”

“Listen to me,” he pleaded urgently.

Hermione immediately fell silent. 

“Dumbledore won the wand from Grindelwald when he defeated him in their famous duel. At the Malfoy’s yesterday, she… Bellatrix, pressed her mark to summon Tom, and I saw where he was and what he was doing. He was at Nurmengard with Grindelwald, Hermione. And now he knows, as do I, that Dumbledore had the wand.”

“Did Grindelwald tell him that? Because, Harry, if he did, he was just trying to get his revenge on Dumbledore, wasn’t he?” she reasoned. “He might not have known that Dumbledore was already dead and hoped The Dark Lord would kill him.”

“No. He didn’t tell him that at all. He lied and said he never had the wand. Even under threat of death, he didn’t admit that he knew anything about its whereabouts.”

“Well, then perhaps he was telling—”

“It was a lie that Tom and I both saw through, Hermione,” Harry interrupted. “And now Riddle is going for the Elder Wand.”

“What?” Ron spluttered, jumping up in alarm and staring down at Harry in shock. “Harry, what are we doing? We have to stop him.”

“No, it’s too late for that. He’s already on his way there.”

“Oh, my God! Why the hell didn’t you say something? When did you see this?” Ron asked angrily. “Why didn’t we go straight to Hogwarts instead of coming here first? Why were you so insistent on speaking with Ollivander when you already knew that Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?”

“I’m not supposed to have it, Ron. You and Hermione were right. We’re supposed to be chasing Horcruxes, not Hallows.”

“But, Harry, it’s the Elder Wand! The most powerful wand in the world,” Ron moaned. “We can’t just let him have it. He’ll be invincible. Come on. We might still be able to get there before him if we hurry.”

He’d already taken two steps towards the door, when Harry spoke again. “It’s already too late, Ron.”

“FUCK!” Ron shouted, whirling back around to face Harry.

“Please, listen to me, both of you,” Harry pleaded. “Dumbledore didn’t want me to have it. He didn’t tell me about the Hallows because I wasn’t supposed to chase them instead of the Horcruxes. Though it makes me feel ill, I have to trust him on this. Do you understand?”

“No! How are you supposed to beat him if he has that wand?” Ron growled, furious.

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione said firmly. “I agree with you. And I trust the plan Dumbledore laid out for you to follow. If he had wanted you to have the wand, he would have managed to get it to you somehow like he did with the sword.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re all of one mind,” Harry said ruefully. “As to beating him, Dumbledore did it. He beat Grindelwald. And after talking with Mr. Ollivander, I don’t think that Tom taking possession of the wand will truly make him master of it. I think you have to win the wand’s allegiance. I don’t think that wand will work for him any better than that blackthorn wand worked for me. That’s what I’m pinning my hopes on anyway.”

“Oh, right. Well I’ll just stop worrying about it then,” Ron snapped sarcastically.

Harry stared up at him looking grim, but did not reply.

“Ron, we have to trust Harry’s decisions and support him in this,” she admonished.

“I do support him. But I think to do that, we need to secure the most powerful weapons available to help him succeed if we have the opportunity, not just let the enemy get their hands on them and hope for the best. I’m sorry if I’m being an arse. I just don’t understand why we always have to make it harder on ourselves. Why couldn’t Dumbledore just have come out and told Harry instead of leaving us to guess at his motives? The prick really left us twisting in the wind here.”

“Well, it’s too late now to change course anyway. We just have to keep our focus on getting whichever Horcrux is in that vault now,” Harry replied. “And then figure out where the next one is hidden.”

“Harry, do you think The Dark Lord is seeking the Deathly Hallows, too?” Hermione asked then. “Is he trying to become Master of Death? Do you think Dumbledore knew he would try and kept the information from you because he knew you owned the cloak already and thought that Tom might use Legilimency on you and realize that you had one of the three Hallows?”

She was still attempting to defend Dumbledore, to rationalize his motives to herself and to Ron, still struggling to understand why he’d left her the book in his will. Why plant the information? Why lead them to discover the Hallows on their own, but then let them stumble in the dark with what they were to do with that information? Hermione certainly understood Ron’s frustration and his anger. They were born out of fear for Harry’s survival and their own.

“No. I don’t think Riddle knew anything about the Hallows. He might have read historical accounts of the Elder Wand, or the Death Stick, the Wand of Destiny, or whatever they might have called it, but he grew up in a muggle orphanage and hadn’t heard Beedle’s tales any more than we had, Hermione. Ollivander told us it was perfectly easy to trace the wand through history, but he didn’t know about the Hallows either so he couldn’t share that information with Tom. He’s simply looking for a wand that he thinks can beat mine because he doesn’t know that mine’s already in two pieces.”

“One of the Death Eaters might have told him. He might have learned of the Hallows at Hogwarts.”

“I don’t think so because he didn’t recognize the Resurrection stone in the Gaunt’s ring and turned it into a Horcrux.”

“Harry, we don’t know that the stone in that ring was the Resurrection stone,” she argued.

“I know you don’t believe it, but I’m convinced it is. I’m also convinced Dumbledore left it to me,” he replied defiantly. “Though, I admit that I don’t understand for what purpose yet. I’m hoping those memories of Snape’s will help me work that out. He said they were Dumbledore’s final instructions to me. Snape was supposed to tell me that last bit of information when the snake was the final Horcrux left, and the Snitch ‘opens at the close’. They’re tied together somehow.” Flipping the rag over, Harry pressed the cooler side against his forehead, pressing firmly against the scar and closed his eyes against the pain. “That’s the Hallow Dumbledore wanted me to have, and that’s the path I’m following,” he whispered before moaning softly.

Hermione got up and knelt in front of him, her hands on his knees. “Is he… Harry, is he breaking into Dumbledore’s tomb?” she asked timidly.

“Yes,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth.

Hermione shared a horrified look with Ron. The idea of Voldemort desecrating Dumbledore’s tomb and robbing his corpse repulsed her. Harry was right not to try and get there first, she thought vehemently. There was no way that they could do what Voldemort was willing to do to gain the wand.

They were silent for a several minutes while Harry fought to close his mind to Tom, to end the vision of the evil that was taking place at Hogwarts. Then, taking a deep breath and getting to his feet suddenly, Harry pulled her up by the hand.

“Come on,” he said, tossing the rag into the sink. “Let’s get out of here before they come looking for us.”

When they arrived back in the kitchen, both Dean and Luna were at the table, tousle haired and sleepy eyed, having breakfast with Bill. They both jumped up at their entrance and embraced them all.

“Blimey, it’s good to see that you three made it out of there in one piece,” Dean said in relief, clapping Ron hard on the back before picking Hermione up in a bear hug and making her shriek in surprise. “Hermione wouldn’t let me stay behind and help find you two, and we were going crazy here wondering if you were all right,” he explained, putting her down finally and kissing her on the cheek. “You don’t know how wonderful it was to see Hermione turn up, though. I thought for sure we were all going to die in there. Then she just appeared, like an answered prayer, an angel of mercy come to rescue us.”

Hermione’s heart constricted at his words. She understood exactly the feeling of despair he must have felt being tortured and chained up in that terrible place, left starving and afraid that those would be the last moments of his life. His eye was still swollen shut, but just having a couple of good meals, being clean and out of that dungeon had made a stark improvement in their appearance.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay,” Harry replied; now carefully examining Luna’s face as she hugged him around the waist.

“Oh, I’ve missed you three. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you,” Luna told him wistfully. “Hogwarts just wasn’t the same without you there. Actually, it was becoming quite dreadful, but not as dreadful as Azkaban.”

“Are you all right, Luna?” Harry asked her in concern.

“Oh, yes. It’s lovely here, isn’t it? My parent and I came to the coast once on holiday before my Mum died, and I enjoyed it very much even though I got a horrible sunburn. I brought home a beautiful seashell as a souvenir, a large conch shell, and when you put your ear to it, you could hear the ocean. It was the most wonderful magic!” She released Harry then and turned back to the bemused group, sitting back down to her half finished bowl of porridge. “I think I’ll go down to the shore after breakfast and collect some small ones to make a burial necklace for Dobby. It wards off evil, you know. Bill said we’re burying him today. Dobby was so brave yesterday, and he and Hermione saved us. I’m really sorry he died,” Luna said in her characteristic bluntness.

Nobody spoke for a minute after that, and then Harry took a deep, steadying breath. “That sounds nice, Luna. And speaking of that, Bill, can I talk to you a minute?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Harry asked Bill for a spade, and then Bill led him to a corner of the garden, showing him the place he’d picked out to bury the elf. Harry thanked him, but brushed off Ron’s and Bill’s offer to help, insisting on doing it himself. So Hermione and Ron watched worriedly from the living room window as Harry labored in the garden for almost two hours before Ron had finally had enough. Then he and Dean both grabbed spades, ignoring Harry’s protests, and joined him in the digging while Fleur accompanied Luna to the shore.

Inspired watching Luna then punching small holes in the shells she’d collected and carving small protective runes into them before threading them together into a necklace, Hermione went in search of some yarn. Settling herself beside the window so she could watch the boys’ progress, Hermione set to work knitting by hand one final elf hat for Dobby, hoping it would be a fitting tribute to the first free elf she’d ever known, who along with Winky, had been the inspiration for S.P.E.W.

Luna had some shells left over and Hermione worked them into the creation of the hat. The white yarn, which was all Fleur had, allowed the patterns on the delicate shells to stand out. It had been a very long time since she’d knitted anything at all so it was with some relief that she realized it had turned out quite lovely and more importantly, distinctly identifiable as a hat instead of being mistaken again for a wooly bladder.

When she’d finished near lunch time, Hermione brought out tall glasses of cold pumpkin juice and tried to persuade Harry to stop working and rest for a bit. He’d pushed up his sleeves at some point, making the scars and bruising on his arms visible. When he wiped his sweaty brow and took the glass from her gratefully, she saw Dean’s eyes travel over Harry’s arms. Harry must have seen it too, because he hurriedly tugged his sleeves down again self-consciously before draining the glass. Then he set back to work again, refusing to break for lunch. Ron stayed with him, but Dean came inside with Hermione. He asked no questions however, nor made any mention of the injuries he’d seen, and Hermione was grateful.

By the early afternoon, Harry had finally decided the hole was deep enough and came inside to clean up before completing his grim task. 

Tenderly, he placed Dobby’s body in the small wooden box Bill had constructed with the burial necklace Luna had made draped across him and the hat resting on top of the small shrouded body, and carried it out to the prepared gravesite. Then they buried the elf, holding a makeshift funeral at the cottage, attended by a rag-tag band of bruised and battered refugees. Still, it was beautiful, and Hermione sobbed into Ron’s shoulder when Harry laid their friend in the ground, and they all said their final goodbyes.

Fleur plucked a perfect white lily from her beloved plant and placed it on the fresh mound of dirt that Bill had magically replaced, covering the simple coffin. Then they all turned one by one, heads bowed, and headed back into the house. All except the three of them.

Once everyone else had gone back inside, Harry found a large smooth white stone and carved an epitaph into it with his wand before carefully placing it at the head of the grave. Then he sat next to the fresh mound of earth for hours while Ron and Hermione silently watched him from feet away, refusing the dinner invitation when Bill had come back out to quietly inform them that it was ready. 

Harry sat; shoulders slumped, staring despondently at his blistered hands and at the dirt still caked under his fingernails while the azure sky turned indigo. Then finally, when darkness began to fall in earnest and the others in the house had long since finished their evening meal, he got to his feet and walked slowly back to them. 

Hermione stood and, without a word, opened her arms to him. Stepping into her embrace, Harry rested his head on her shoulder, his hands clasped loosely around her waist.

“Take me home,” he whispered wearily into her neck as she held him to her, stroking his hair, Ron with a hand at his back, shielding them from any curious onlookers inside the house who might bear witness to his grief. 

When they arrived back in the foyer at Number Twelve, Ron pulled Harry to him by the hand. Then, grasping his head, he backed Harry into the wall as he kissed him. The kiss was sensual, but not overly aggressive, and when they broke apart, Ron rested his forehead against Harry’s.

“You all right, mate?” he asked, staring into Harry’s red rimmed eyes, finally able to express his affection and concern now they were alone again.

Harry nodded, and Ron stepped back, running his hand down Harry’s neck as Hermione stepped close to them and slid her arm around Harry’s back, kissing him on his stubbled chin.

“Come on,” Ron urged him quietly, pulling Harry by the arm. “You’re going to eat something.”

“I don’t want anything,” Harry argued. “I’m just really tired, Ron.”

“Too bad. You’re eating something first.”

“I’ll eat something tomorrow.”

“You’ll eat something now,” Ron insisted.

Harry finally gave up and allowed Ron to push him down the hall to the kitchen, mumbling under his breath things like, “I’m a big boy,” and, “don’t need you to take care of me,” all of which Ron ignored without comment. Despite his grumblings, Harry took a seat at the table and Ron quickly warmed up Fleur’s soup he’d brought back from Bill’s yesterday. She and Ron joined Harry for the meal, which was a mostly silent affair, and when Ron had decided that Harry had finally eaten enough, they retreated back up the stairs.

To Hermione’s bewilderment, Harry turned into the small bedroom he’d been occupying since that day of their estrangement. She’d just assumed they would return to their sleeping arrangements from before, in Sirius’ room. As he stepped away from them, Hermione grasped him by the hand.

“Harry?” she questioned softly.

He turned slowly back to her, looking exhausted. 

“Come to bed with us,” she urged, tugging gently on his hand. “I don’t want you to be alone tonight.” 

Harry’s uncertain eyes searched hers, and then Ron’s, who nodded in agreement. Then without a word, he relented, letting her pull him by the hand, leading him up to Sirius’ bedroom. 

Sitting on the bed as soon as they’d entered the room, Harry wearily began to remove his dirt-caked trainers and his socks, but that was as far as he got on his own before Ron was there, pulling Harry’s jumper over his head and then pushing him onto his back. 

“I’m covered in dirt,” Harry protested weakly when Ron began to unbuckle his belt.

“You could be covered in stink sap, and we’d still want you,” Ron replied, pulling the belt free before dragging Harry’s loose jeans and boxers down over his hips while Hermione sat herself at the foot of the bed, kicking off her own shoes.

Harry didn’t resist, only closed his eyes as Ron continued to undressed him. He was already hard by the time Ron had worked the jeans free of his legs and then slid his hands up Harry’s thighs and over his chest. Pushing Harry’s arms over his head, Ron leaned over him to capture his lips more firmly this time while Hermione watched them, her own arousal growing.

Ron pulled back, staring down at Harry for a moment before leaning down again to place his lips against Harry’s chest. Pressing on Harry’s upper arms to brace himself, Ron held them pinned over Harry’s head, holding him down while he planted light kisses over his ribs before licking Harry’s nipple and taking it between his teeth. Harry moaned, eyes still squeezed closed, and arched his back before curling his hips automatically to rub his erection against Ron’s thigh. 

A jolt of electricity seemed to pass through Hermione, as if it were her nipple Ron was worrying with his teeth, or her body Harry was thrusting against. Her unquenched arousal from this morning was returning in full force at the prospect of finally seeing them together. God, they were beautiful in this moment, and she could feel the heat building in her as it built between them.

“Come here,” Ron growled, sliding his hand under Harry’s lower back, a knee on the bed, and he pulled Harry upwards, dragging him farther up the mattress so just his feet were hanging off.

Then Ron lay down on top of Harry, wrapped his arms around him and rolled to the side, pulling Harry with him so they were face to face. As he kissed Harry again, Ron slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth, and ran his hand down Harry’s back and over his arse, squeezing the globes of flesh to press their hips firmly together while Hermione continued to watch them hungrily. They were still kissing, Ron still pulling Harry into him and grinding against him when Hermione finally lost her resolve to remain an observer and joined them. Harry’s hand was on Ron’s shoulder, Ron’s shirt gathered in his fist, but he let go when Hermione ran her hand up his bare thigh. Reaching for her then, feeling blindly, Harry placed his hand over hers and squeezed before Ron finally released him. 

Turning to her then, Harry pulled on her hand, and she came to him. He rolled onto his back, and Hermione draped herself over him, stroking his face once before pressing their lips lightly together. Then Harry’s hand was in her hair, pulling her closer, drawing her into him as the kiss deepened. When it ended, he lifted his head to press his forehead to hers in a tender gesture that held so much meaning and memories for them both. They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, and Ron took the opportunity to crawl back off the bed and shed his clothes. 

Kissing her forehead, Harry tucked her head under his chin and held her to him. His hand between her shoulder blades, he rubbed her back. She could hear his heart beating rhythmically in his chest; feel his ribs expanding with his breaths. Comforted by the heat from his body against her face, she closed her eyes and relaxed against him, allowing him to take control and slow things down again.

She had missed him so desperately during their estrangement, missed just having the comfort of him this near her again. Craving more than just physical intimacy from Harry, Hermione had been longing for this emotional intimacy that they had begun to share during the nights they’d spent in this bed. Having been cut off from it so abruptly had caused her physical pain, which she hadn’t even really realized she’d been feeling until he’d returned and it had ended.

As she ran her fingers over his chest, grazing him lightly with her nails, she reveled in his nearness. Hermione thought she could just stay here all night and do nothing else, simply content to lie with him like this if that was all he wanted. If Harry just needed the shelter of them beside him tonight to protect him from his grief, she would happily oblige. Willing to stay awake through the darkness, holding him in her arms, she’d stand guard against the nightmares she knew would come for him in his sleep.

Harry was too vulnerable right now to be alone, and he belonged here with them. Maybe he was still denying it, still attempting to resist it, but he was losing. He wasn’t going to make this easy, though. Nothing with him ever was. Hermione knew he was wracked with guilt. She’d wrestled with her own conscious, and knew that she’d soon have to face the friend she was betraying, but at this moment, at this time in their lives, she’d convinced herself that it wasn’t wrong. Right now, they were still fighting everyday just for the chance to see that day come. She might feel guilt, but she could not feel regret. They needed Harry, and he needed them.

Sighing as she nestled against him, Harry rubbed his cheek against her hair, and Hermione resolved herself to a quiet night with him. Then he gasped. His whole body jolted, and she looked up, bewildered. Ron had finished undressing and had returned to them. Hermione had almost forgotten him, but he certainly hadn’t forgotten them, or his plans for Harry tonight. Leaning over the bed, he was stroking Harry with one hand, the other cupping his balls, rolling them in his palm. Clearly, he was more interested in continuing to engage Harry in a more physical encounter. Looking her in the eyes, Ron bent his head down to Harry before she could even attempt to dissuade him.

“Oh, Jesus!” Harry groaned, tilting his head back into the mattress and gripping Hermione’s shirt. “No… please, I... I’m dirty,” he gasped when Ron ran his tongue up Harry’s shaft, his eyes still on hers. 

“You didn’t dig that hole with your dick, did you?” Ron asked, smirking.

“No, but I got all sweaty and gross. Please, Ron. Let me get a shower first,” he pleaded, the reason for his reluctance, or at least part of it, now obvious to Hermione.

“I’ll clean you off,” Ron responded, licking the head of Harry’s cock, which caused his body to spasm with another jolt of pleasure. “I don’t want to wait.” 

Without giving Harry a chance to protest further, Ron took him into his mouth. Harry sucked in a shuddering breath, clutching the blanket.

Hermione stared, wide eyed at the sight of Ron’s lips around another man’s penis. It left her speechless. The image was so erotic that she moaned along with Harry at the heat building in her again, the passion reigniting in her core. Heart pounding, she couldn’t take her eyes off them. She was simply mesmerized.

Eager again, she touched Harry’s quivering stomach, trailing a finger over the line of soft black hair below his navel, following the path down to where it joined his pubic hair and then to the base of his cock where Ron’s lips met it briefly on his slow decent down Harry’s shaft. Smiling at Ron, she slid the digit back up again while Harry’s muscles contracted under her touch, and he groaned weakly. 

“I really like this,” she whispered, now watching Harry’s face as her hand travelled back down again, guided by the trail of hair.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Harry whimpered and arched up off the bed again, helpless to stop his reaction to them or to put an end to it. Then he hissed, his body jerking once more, but it wasn’t with pleasure this time. Grimacing, he reached for Ron, who immediately stilled.

“Teeth,” he gasped. “Mind the teeth.”

“Sorry,” Ron apologized, releasing him.

“’S okay,” Harry assured him as Ron replaced his mouth with his hand again and resumed stroking Harry. But Harry had finally had enough and sat up. Seizing on the opening, he stopped Ron’s hand with a grip on his wrist. “It was my fault, but seriously. I really need a shower, Ron. I can’t do this like this. I won’t be long,” he promised and slid off the bed before Ron could argue, leaving the bathroom door open as he stepped into the tub.

In Harry’s absence, Ron had taken the opportunity to engage Hermione in a bit of heavy petting so that she was also nearly undressed herself, her shirt off, her jeans unbuttoned, when, true to his word, Harry came walking back into the bedroom after about five minutes.

“Now I have to get one, too, you prat,” Ron growled, scowling at Harry who was looking quite appealing with just a towel wrapped around his waist, his skin pink and his hair damp and wild from where he’d quickly dried it. “I can’t be all sweaty and dirty. Hermione won’t come anywhere near me now with you all clean and damp, smelling like soap.”

“I love you, Ron, but that’s true,” she agreed, smiling at Ron’s sour look as Harry made a rude hand gesture in reply, removed his glasses, and lay back down on the bed.

“Don’t start without me,” Ron warned as Hermione turned to Harry.

He looked better, but still exhausted, Hermione thought as Ron grumbled past her on his way to the bathroom. The shower helped, but Harry’s arms, back, and shoulders surely ached from the exertion of digging Dobby’s grave, and she knew his heart ached with the weight of his grief. It had been such a long, stressful day. Clearly, he was reluctant to continue where they had left off, as well, since he’d taken his usual spot on the bed, the farthest away from her current position. Deciding on a plan of action, Hermione stood up to retrieve her bag.

“Roll over,” she instructed.

“What?” Harry asked nervously, glancing quickly towards the bathroom as if he thought Ron were about to ambush him. “Why?”

“I’m going to put some of Madame Pomfrey’s cream on your arms and back,” she explained. “You’ll be so stiff tomorrow; you won’t be able to move otherwise.”

“Oh, um… all right,” he hesitantly agreed. Obediently, he rolled over into the middle of the bed without further protest. Lying down on his stomach, he pushed the pillows up and turned his head to the side to face her. 

Under his watchful, albeit blurry gaze, Hermione removed her jeans and bra so that she was left in just her cotton knickers when she crawled back onto the bed and straddled his lower back. She began at the nape of his neck and then out across the shoulders. Using the cream, her fingers dug into the tender flesh, working the tense muscles loose, being careful around the perpetually healing bite marks in case they might be sore. Then she worked her way down his upper arms, every stroke of her hands causing him to whimper and her to rub herself against his lower back. 

When she scooted down to sit on his bum, she ran her fingers along the column of his spine, circling her thumbs from the small of his back all the way up to his shoulders. Judging by his reaction, it must have felt good. Harry broke out in goose bumps, pressed his forehead into the mattress and moaned loudly. 

“Oh, God. I’ve never had a massage before, and now I never wanted to stop having one. Christ, it feels good!”

He was relaxing into the bed, his body melting into the mattress as she worked her way outwards to his sides and then scooted down again to settle herself across his upper thighs. Then, removing his towel, she worked in earnest on his lower back and over his bum while he grunted and groaned. Repeatedly he cried out, the sound muffled against the bed when a knotted muscle rolled under her fingers or her palm and she massaged it smooth again.

When she’d finally finished, and his entire backside was red from her ministrations, she leaned down and kissed Harry in the curve of his lower back. Then she ran her tongue along his spine, which made him erupt into goose bumps and whimper again. Finally molding her body to his, she rested her head between his shoulder blades and relaxed against him. Sliding her hands over his, their fingers entwined, and they lay silently in that pose, simply breathing together until Ron returned from the bathroom. As relaxed as they both were, if he had been much longer, he might have come out to find them already asleep like that with Hermione draped over Harry like a human blanket. Not that it was likely to deter Ron very much.

“Damn, you two look beautiful!” he whispered, stroking her back.

Hermione smiled up at him, having thought the same thing about Ron and Harry earlier.

Quickly discarding his towel, Ron joined them on the bed, and Hermione sat back up, greeting him with a wet kiss. Then she lifted herself off Harry’s thighs slightly so that he could move underneath her.

“Turn back over now,” she instructed.

Harry did, with only the slightest hesitation. 

He was still hard, his cock swollen and red, and his eyes had grown dark with desire when Harry looked up at her through those black lashes. Settling herself against his thighs again, she ran her hands over his hip bones as Ron crawled up behind her. His hands skimmed over her ribs, pulling her against him to cup her breasts. Lifting her back to her knees, Ron pressed his hips into her, rubbing his erection against her bum with his mouth at her neck while Harry watched them, now trapped underneath them both.

Then Harry was touching her, too, and Hermione was lost. Warm hands slid up her legs, and he caressed her, stroking his thumbs over her inner thighs as Ron did the same over her hardening nipples. Hermione tilted her head back and to the side, giving Ron more access to her neck as he squeezed her breasts, now rolling the dusky centers into firmer peaks while she moaned her appreciation. 

Lifting her arm to grip Ron’s head when he finally slid a hand down her belly and under the elastic of her panties, Hermione shook with anticipation, whimpering when he slipped a long finger inside her quickly before gathering her wetness to stroke her quivering center. 

Hermione was swept up in the sensation she’d been craving. Closing her eyes, she rocked against Ron’s hand, mewling with desire, needing so desperately for him to fill the ache inside her. She was pulling on Ron’s hair, urging him to enter her as she rubbed herself alternately against his hard shaft and his hand, growing more frantic for her release, oblivious to anything around her. Then Harry spoke.

“Can I watch you two together?” he asked quietly, tentatively. 

Hermione’s eyes popped open, and still panting, she looked down at him in surprise. He’d spoken his request in a low voice as if afraid to ask and there was color in his cheeks, but his eyes were still dark with desire and his words felt so erotic.

The bravest man she’d ever known, embarrassed to ask for what he wanted. What a fascinating contradiction he was, how beautifully conflicted.

“I’ve been picturing it for weeks. Trying to put images to the sounds I heard in the darkness when I was drugged up and hallucinating,” he explained, his voice growing thick with arousal as he grew more confident in his request. “I want to see it.”

Behind her, Ron groaned, sending more heat flooding through her.

“Show me,” Harry whispered.

~ . ~


	36. Negotiations

Dudley had kept a stash of pornographic magazines stuffed in the bottom of his wardrobe. Harry had found them once when the rest of the family had gone out and he’d been left home alone on Privet Drive. It had been the summer between his fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts, perhaps his most difficult summer holiday, at least up to that point in his life. He’d been almost fifteen.

After first being threatened with the usual bodily harm by his uncle if he touched any of the Dursley’s things while they were out, Harry found himself alone in the house for the first time all holiday. Left to his own devices, feeling restless and defiant after Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s return without a single scrap of news from any of his friends, he’d promptly ignored the warnings and had gone looking for trouble, or at least something to take his mind off things. Flipping the channels on the telly for a while, he’d watched the news (which had absolutely no information about what Voldemort was up to), gotten bored and decided to have a go on Dudley’s computer or the gaming console.

His cousin’s bedroom had reeked of flowery air freshener, stale cigarette smoke, and dirty socks when Harry nervously entered it, but he ignored the smell in his quest to explore things forbidden to him. It wasn’t long, however, before Harry lost interest in those electronic things, as well, and started rummaging through his cousin’s side table and wardrobe. For what, he didn’t know, but that’s when he’d finally found something to hold his interest: a crumpled pack of fags and Dudley’s stash of wanking fodder. Enthralled then, his boredom a memory, Harry lost track of time and almost got caught when he hadn’t heard his relative’s car pull up in the drive. Startled by the slamming of the car door, Harry quickly pocketed the cigarette stub and hastily stuffed the magazines back where he’d found them before dashing back to his room, heart hammering, and dove for his bed. 

That was the only time he’d ever seen those images. He’d never gone looking for them again, but he remembered them vividly. Women frozen in poses, legs spread or bent over with their bare arses in the air. And tits, lots and lots of tits in all different sizes and shapes, some with large dark areolas, other with small pink ones. In some of the photographs, they fondled their breasts or pulled on their distended nipples. In others, their fingers with long painted nails spread their labia, exposing their pink, glistening opening for the camera. 

The pictures didn’t move, of course, and Harry wondered then if there were any wizarding magazines like that which did, but he doubted it, perhaps in private collections, but surely none that were available for public consumption. Harry had never seen one, but he knew there were muggle videos you could watch, though, because there were advertisements for them in Dudley’s magazine.

He’d wanked to those images almost every night until after the Dementor attack, when he’d finally been smuggled to Order Headquarters and began sharing a room again with Ron. The pictures he’d seen on those glossy pages had been perfectly preserved in his memory, but they were nothing compared to the real thing. Seeing two people in person right next to you, above you where you could hear every breathy moan, see every caress, smell their arousal as they engaged in foreplay was mind boggling. To be able to touch them with your own hands, to join in if you were bold enough was a temptation that burned in his gut and pounded in his veins.

But he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t want to be doing this. 

Harry was exhausted, his body scrubbed clean, his hunger satiated, and the massage Hermione had given him seemed to have liquefied all his muscles. He was mourning Dobby, and teeming with anxiety and uncertainty about his decision not to act this morning on the vision of Voldemort. The mental and physical fatigue left him nearly listless, his mind and body both numb, and yet he was completely aroused at the same time. 

Why was it that his heart could be bursting with grief, his conscience filled with regret and his brain burdened by doubt, and yet his body still wanted a sexual release? How was it that he could have just buried one friend and still want to bury himself inside another? What kind of person did that?   

Harry could hardly loathe himself more. The self-disgust churned inside him, gnawing at his insides, but it still wasn’t strong enough to override the desire. Longing for comfort and relief, he was desperate for the warmth of Ron and Hermione’s bodies again tonight. He hungered for the taste of their mouths, the feel of their hands, the smell of their skin, and the sound of their voices as they whispered encouragement or moaned in pleasure. 

There was still fear and shame in being with them like this, but he was powerless to resist it. He felt raw, unable to insulate himself against his yearning for them, helpless to fight his own carnal needs. He’d tried to discourage their advances, to suppress his body’s fervent response. He just couldn’t. They permeated all his senses, bombarded his weakened defenses, and overwhelmed his guilt riddled conscience.

He’d hoped that once his initial thirst for them had been quenched, he would be able to pull back once more, to regain his balance and stop poisoning their friendship, but it only seemed to have made his appetite for them stronger. The fat moon that hung in the sky was still pulling on him powerfully, causing his skin to prickle and burn. The blood surging in him hummed in his veins leaving him jittery and nervous, but the complete lassitude of his muscles made him feel as if he’d taken another calming draught. Curbing the frenzy building inside him, it gave him the appearance of being outwardly relaxed despite the chaos of his thoughts and emotions. The sensation made him feel as if his body had been bound securely and thrown into rapid waters. Caught up in its strong current, Harry was being borne swiftly along its twisting and curving route to a destination he both feared and craved.

The river that carried him, Harry was sure, ended in falls, and he knew he would soon be swept over them to meet his end on the rocks below. It was just a matter of time. His desire for Ron and Hermione was that current, and his own state of lethargy, his willing acceptance of that fate prevented him putting up any resistance to fight against it. Unable to break free, Harry simply rolled with it, quiescent.

He’d resolved himself to it the best he could, but he would not be unaccompanied. Ron and Hermione were with him, had always been, and would always be. He could not save them no matter how hard he’d tried. Harry couldn’t fling them from him to safety, and his heart broke at their fate. They were the bindings holding him immobile, Ron and Hermione, their bodies wrapped tightly around his, clinging to him which prevented him struggling against the tug of the current. It was far too late to save himself, perhaps it had always been, from the moment Trelawney uttered the prophecy and Snape revealed it to his Master. He’d thought he could spare Ron and Hermione from it at least, but he was wrong. He’d tried though. God knows he’d tried his best.

_We’re not Fluffy_ , he told himself again, but it was a lie. Ron and Hermione were absorbing him into them, wholly and completely. They were all fusing together, now more than ever, his fate becoming theirs, and trying to break from them would be worse than dying. But they already were dying. That was the inescapable truth of it. They had so little time left. Harry knew it in his heart and in his mind. So little time and so much regret, he thought as he stared up at them.

God, they were beautiful together, both of them nearly naked and kneeling above him. Straddling him in that erotic pose, they touched each other in full view of Harry’s avid gaze. Hermione’s eyes were closed, her neck exposed to Ron’s hungry mouth while Ron’s strong arms encircled her. Holding her to him, Ron hands cupped her breasts, and he began kneading the flesh as she rubbed against him. They moved together, not hesitantly, but almost instinctively and with practiced knowledge, each aware of how and where to touch the other. Marveling at the exquisite scene before him, Harry was fascinated and more than a little intimidated.

Balls aching and cock throbbing, Harry’s hand twitched with the desire to rub himself for some relief, but he didn’t want to tend to that, or have either of them stop enjoying each other to tend to him. Instead, he wished he were invisible, under the cloak and watching undetected so that he could simply observe them, denying himself as long as possible until it was painful, until the need to touch himself was overwhelming and he succumbed. And that was wrong, too, another kink he didn’t know he possessed, until now. 

Like a voyeur, he wanted them totally unaware of his presence. If they didn’t know there was an audience, they would be freer to indulge in each other and not feel that they had to include him. They would be less self-conscious so he would finally be able to see what they did when they were alone together. He would listen as they spoke intimate things to each other, watch as they made love, and he would know at last if it matched the images he’d conjured of them in his fantasies. 

Somehow, simply wanting to see, but not be seen, felt so much more wicked and kinky than actually participating. This was meant to be private, and that element of secrecy, the fantasy of observing undetected was more erotic, the tingle of fear of being caught more exhilarating, and the denial of his own satisfaction, the self-punishment, even more arousing. 

Christ, he was fucked up! As if he needed any more proof of his depravity, but there it was.

One of Ron’s hands still cupped Hermione’s firm breast, rolling a hardened nipple between his fingers while he ran his other down her taut stomach, his questing fingers slipping under the fabric of her cotton panties to stroke her. Hermione whimpered and threw her arm up to grip Ron’s head, rubbing her bum against him wantonly. Harry could smell her arousal and his mouth watered; the aching in his loins growing more intense. Swallowing hard, he tentatively slid his shaking hands up her thighs to keep from wrapping them around himself. He stroked her softly with his thumbs, and she moaned in pleasure. The look on her face, wholly uninhibited in this moment as she arched into Ron’s hand, made Harry’s whole body burn with desire for her. He had to squeeze his eyes closed a moment and hold his breath to regain control of himself before he came at the sight alone.

“Can I watch you two together?” Harry asked. The words were out of him mouth before he even realized it, unaware for a moment that he’d actually spoken them out loud until Hermione’s eyes popped open in surprise. Then he went red, of course, his hands now motionless on her thighs. “I’ve been picturing it for weeks. Trying to put images to the sounds I heard in the darkness when I was drugged up and hallucinating,” he explained, feeling less mortified at his request when they didn’t look immediately appalled by it. “I want to see it.”

Ron groaned, and Harry felt it again in the tightening of his balls. Breathing deeply, he met Ron’s eyes. “Show me,” he whispered.

Ron gave him a slow, seductive smile. “Tell me what you want, Harry,” he replied in a low voice, heavy with his own desire. 

That same thrill at his quiet words sent an electric current to Harry’s cock, making him shiver and then go hot all over again. Harry licked his lips in anticipation, feeling breathless. He was being offered free reign to have his fantasies acted out in front of him; whatever he wanted to see Ron and Hermione do with each other.

Remembering vividly the feel of Ron’s lips and tongue on him this morning as Ron pressed him into the tub wall and worked his way down Harry’s slick body, a response began to form in his mind. He recalled the heat of that mouth around him as Ron’s hands pinned him by the hips, the warm wet suction until Harry’s legs shook, and the relentless pull on his cock while Ron swallowed him over and over until the sensation finally brought him to orgasm. He had to fight back a moan and the overwhelming desire to stroke himself as he shivered again at the memory.

“I… I want to see your mouth on her,” he answered, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep deeper into his face at his bold request. Harry was developing a fixation on Ron’s mouth. He’d already seen those lips on him again tonight, and he wanted to see more.

“Damn, Harry,” Ron said, grinning wickedly as Hermione whimpered, and Harry’s heart fluttered erratically in his chest. “Lay back, Hermione,” Ron coaxed, releasing her and scooting backwards on the bed.

Before she complied, however, Hermione leaned over Harry with her hands planted on the bed beside his shoulders and kissed him. It was brief, but full of heat. Her small, wet tongue immediately filled his mouth, and his hands, which were still gripping her thighs, tightened as more electric currents shot through him. Then she kissed his chest, her hair spilling onto him as she licked each of his nipples in turn and set them on fire, making him moan and break out in goose bumps. Leaning even farther down, her back arching, she moved to his stomach. Harry held his breath, tensing in expectation as a ringing began in his ears. Ron stroked her spine and over her bum, which was lifted up to him when her lips brushed across the hair on Harry’s stomach and her warm breath blew across the head of his swollen cock. 

Without warning, he reacted. His hand shot from her thigh to quickly cover his erection, his body going instantly rigid under her. The image of her pleasuring him with her mouth while he lay in this position, trapped under her, suddenly brought back terrible memories of another who had done that to him in the same way. He panicked, forgetting for a moment where he was and who he was with.

“No!” he gasped.

She immediately froze. Then she slowly sat back up, searching his face, and he saw that she was Hermione, once again, with her hair of chestnut curls and her golden brown eyes full of wary concern.

“You okay?” Ron asked cautiously. His expression mirrored Hermione’s as he stared down at Harry.

“I’m sorry. I just… I thought for a minute,” he stammered, his heart still slamming against his ribcage, adrenaline rushing through his veins. “I got confused… but I’m all right now.”

_Stop fucking everything up all the time, you stupid git_! Harry berated himself, trying to get his mind and body back under control again as he clenched and unclenched his fist.

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked, her voice and eyes still full of uncertainty.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so.” The fear was receding finally, taking the ominous tingling in his limbs with it. “Maybe I should sit up, though.”

“Come on, then,” Ron encouraged, pulling Hermione off him and freeing Harry so he could.  

Harry let out the breath he was holding, his anxiety lessening when she went willingly.

Hermione lay down beside him on her back, her eyes still on him as with shaking hands, Harry wrapped the towel back around himself hurriedly and sat up. Reaching for his glasses, he took several deep, calming breaths. 

“I’m good. It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry reassured her, hoping to salvage the disaster he was making of things. “It isn’t you. I just wasn’t ready, and in that position… it just scared me is all.” Reaching down, Harry slipped his hand into hers like she had with him that night in the darkness, and Hermione nodded sadly up at him, still doubtful. “Will you show me what feels good to you, Hermione?” he asked in a whisper. “I’d still really like to see what makes your toes curl.”

That did the trick.  Her expression softened, and smiling up at him, she pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it before answering. “Only if you show me what feels good to you.”

Not taking his eyes off her face, Harry nodded. Hermione nodded back and nervously licked her lips. Then her eyes began to grow dark once more with arousal when Ron slowly pulled off her knickers and slid her legs apart. Hermione was already panting in anticipation or nervousness at having Harry watch them. Harry stroked her hand reassuringly, starting to feel his own pulse quicken, but with excitement again instead of fear. 

Wanting to see her expression when Ron touched her with his mouth, but also wanting to see Ron’s mouth on her, too, Harry’s eyes darted between them both. Finally, he decided to watch Hermione first as Ron settled himself between her thighs.

The moment Ron’s lips were on her, she opened her mouth in a perfect O, and her eyes fluttered closed. Sucking in a breath, she squeezed Harry’s hand. Ron started slow, taking his time and teasing her with his tongue while she sighed, relaxing against the sheets. Then he used his fingers to open her to him and plunged his tongue into her before flicking near the top. Each time he did, Hermione’s legs gave a slight jerk as if Ron’s tongue was electrified, sending a strong current through her when he made contact. Then, when she was writhing under him and whimpering in frustration, he slid one and then two fingers into her while continuing to work his mouth over her more firmly. Circling his tongue, sucking, Ron pumped his fingers into her while Hermione moaned and Harry watched. 

Bellatrix couldn’t rub herself against his tongue the way she wanted that night, and she couldn’t release him from the body bind either. Harry would have chewed her up, and she knew it. She’d already tried the Imperius curse, too, so she was out of luck for this kind of oral stimulation from him. It was one lesson she couldn’t really teach him, though not from lack of trying. Harry didn’t know why he could think on it without panicking again and without the terrible memories filling him once more with fear, but he was grateful.

“Damn,” Harry breathed when Hermione bit her lip and started rocking her hips to meet Ron’s fingers, squeezing Harry’s hand rhythmically. She was making those same noises that had been tormenting him for weeks, the soundtrack to his fantasies and his nightmares. “What does it feel like, Hermione?” he asked her curiously, but she only clutched at him harder, throwing back her head and arching her back, pinning Ron’s head between her legs with her thighs while Ron groaned into her.

Looking down at her, Harry’s eyes traveled over Hermione’s body spread out under Ron. Her skin was flushed with excitement, and her nipples seemed to harden under his stare. He watched in wonder as they tightened into peaks. Harry wanted to touch them, to taste them, but he was afraid and still a little reluctant. His eyes met hers again, and she nodded encouragingly. 

“You are so beautiful, Hermione,” he whispered.

Tentatively, he reached out his hand, sliding his palm over her breast, and she sighed in contentment. Ron seemed to slow down, matching Harry’s leisurely exploration of Hermione, but she didn’t seem to be in any hurry either. Kneading her flesh, Harry rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, traced her ribs with the tips of his fingers and then down to her belly button while she undulated underneath the combination of his hands and Ron’s mouth.

Her body was so much different than Bellatrix’s, softer, less muscular, her tits smaller but more firm, her waist narrower and hips not flaring as wide. Harry hated that he couldn’t stop comparing them, hated that Bellatrix’s body was the only frame of reference with which he had to judge. Then he suddenly wondered if Hermione weighed him against Ron with the same results: less muscular, thinner, and much more scarred, but much less freckled. He felt self-conscious then, so he tried to focus his attention back onto Hermione and on what Ron was doing to her while Harry’s hands continued to roam over her.

Hermione’s breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps now, burning with the slow tease as she writhed on the bed.

“You’re so close aren’t you, Hermione?” he asked on a whisper.

Both Hermione and Ron moaned.

“You should see her face, Ron. She’s absolutely gorgeous. I can see it coming over her.”

As if his words had brought her to her climax, Hermione let out a strangled cry, squeezing her eyes shut and biting down on her lower lip. Arching up off the bed, she gripped his hand tightly as she came, riding the wave of ecstasy coursing through her.

“Beautiful,” he whispered again, circling one of the pebbled nipples she had lifted up to him with his middle finger.

“Holy, Jesus!” Ron growled, lifting his head from Hermione’s damp curls.

“What?” Harry asked perplexed.

“I almost came myself from your damn commentary!” he said accusingly as he pulled Hermione’s legs down swiftly and crawled up her. 

Straddling her waist as he gripped Harry one handed by the back of the head, Ron suddenly yanked Harry towards him and plunged his hot tongue into Harry’s mouth, sharing the taste of Hermione with him, making Harry moan now, too. His head spun with renewed desire at the explosions of flavors flooding his senses. Releasing him just as suddenly then and crawling off Hermione, Ron stood and held out his hand, pulling Hermione up to stand next to him, giving Harry a fantastic view of her pert, heart-shaped arse. Then Ron kissed her, his hands roaming all over her as he pulled her into him to rub against her.

“Come here, luv,” he whispered, walking backwards and pulling her along with him.

Seating himself in the chair in the corner of the room, Ron turned Hermione so she faced Harry before helping her onto his lap. Then he locked his eyes on Harry, who was still sitting propped against the headboard, wide eyed and tingling all over with arousal.

“Take off that towel,” Ron ordered Harry as Hermione settled herself onto his lap and stared at Harry unblushingly. 

Harry’s heart started to pound again, but he did as he was told. Pulling the towel from his waist with shaking hands, he dropped it on the bed next to him.

“Good,” Ron praised him as Harry reclined back against the headboard once more, feeling somewhat embarrassed again with his entire body on display. “Now, touch yourself.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the command, and more heat gathered in his cheeks. “What?”

“I’m going to give you some new wanking fodder.” Ron told him as he spread Hermione’s legs so that Harry could see Ron position himself at her entrance.

“Oh, God!” Harry moaned, his mouth opening in shock at the sight of Ron slowly penetrating Hermione. 

When he was fully seated inside Hermione, Ron nodded at him in a ‘get going’ sort of way, and at the non-verbal command, Harry wrapped his hand around himself at last. 

“This is soooo wrong,” he whimpered as Ron began moving slowly in and out of Hermione, running his hands over her breasts and between her legs while Harry stroked himself in front of them, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Faster,” Ron instructed. 

Groaning, Harry complied. Then he tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the images because it was just too much. He was going to come too quickly if he didn’t stop watching them.

“Nope, eyes open, mate.”

Harry whined in protest, but lifted his head again to stare at the two of them, his eyes finding Hermione’s for a moment. She was watching him with the same hungry expression that he knew was on his own face. Then Ron, holding her legs spread wide, pulled back her folds, exposing her fully to Harry’s gaze, before sliding his middle finger over her dark pink center and rubbing in circles. 

While Ron pumped into Hermione, Harry gripped himself harder, matched Ron’s tempo, and pumped into his fist. Losing himself to the erotic stimulus, he imagined that it was him in Ron’s place, and that the hand that he was thrusting into was really Hermione.

“Breathe,” Ron said warningly.

Harry immediately blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and shuddered.

“Ron!” Hermione moaned heavily, throwing her head back and gripping the chair arms.

At the sound of her pleasure, Harry came with a deep groan.

“Told you I could keep your mind off that bitch,” Ron told him in a self-satisfied way when Harry had stopped quaking. “Now, it’s your turn to try.” While continuing to thrust slowly up into Hermione to hold off his own release, Ron held out his hand and motioned for Harry to join them.

Still panting, Harry groped for the towel with shaking hands and used it to clean himself up, then did as Ron had instructed. Sliding off the bed, he came to stand in front of the pair on trembling legs. Then without waiting for Ron’s direction, he sank to his knees. Ron stopped thrusting into Hermione to scoot to the edge of the chair with her and then leaned back, pulling Hermione with him and angling them both up towards Harry.

Displaying a limberness Harry didn’t know she possessed, Hermione draped her thighs over the chair arms with Ron’s help. Then Ron slid his hands to her waist and began to move again, more quickly this time. Able to pull out farther with the chair arms supporting most of Hermione’s weight, Ron held her steady for Harry, who leaned down then without prompting to taste her for himself. The noise she made when his tongue touched her made Harry almost instantly hard again. Ron moaned, too, as if he could feel Harry’s tongue against him, as well.

Gripping Hermione’s waist tightly, Ron moved faster. Hermione threw her head back again, grasping a handful of Harry’s hair. With the other hand, she fondled her own breast. Her mouth was open, and she was panting as Harry looked up at her.

He didn’t have to do much, which was good, since he really had no idea what he was doing, anyway. Luckily, his inexperience at this and lack of technique was not a hindrance to her pleasure as all he had to do was hold his mouth against her. The movement of their bodies as Ron and Hermione collided together faster and faster was enough to make her slide against his waiting tongue.

Hermione was growing louder, her cries more urgent. She was coming undone at the dual pleasure she was receiving. Reaching up, Harry cupped her neglected left breast and rubbed his thumb over her nipple while pressing his mouth and tongue against her more firmly and sucking hard as he’d seen Ron do earlier. Hermione gripped his hair tighter, and then keening loudly, came for the second time. Harry could feel the pulsing of her orgasm against his lips and tongue. An instant later, Ron came, too, with a growl.

When it was over and the two of them were left gasping for breath, Harry pulled back, sitting back on his knees as Hermione carded her hands through his hair while she relaxed her thighs and sank back onto Ron, who was still nestled inside her. Then she pulled Harry to her so he was kneeling between their legs and leaning forward. Pressing him against her, Hermione kissed him hard, her small tongue seeking his hungrily. Behind her, Ron scooped her hair into a ponytail and then kissed her on the back of the neck while he caressed the side of Harry’s face. 

Harry was hard again, but he didn’t care. He didn’t think Ron or Hermione was ready for more, and it would pass, eventually. He was wrong though, about Ron and Hermione.

When she released him, Harry kissed the tip of each of her breasts and then got to his feet, grateful to be off his knees. Ron groaned when Hermione pushed off him, stood up, and kissed Harry again. Then she went to her knees in front of him.

“No. I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

But she had already engulfed him, and his argument died on his lips when his stomach clenched and his hands fisted at the feel of her warm mouth around him. God, Almighty! They were trying to kill him.

Harry’s eyes rolled up in his head, and his legs began to shake. Then Ron stepped even closer, sliding a hand around his waist to help hold him up and trapping Hermione between them as he took her place at Harry’s mouth, eliminating any further protest Harry might have thought to make with the invasion of his tongue.

With Hermione swallowing him, and Ron’s hands caressing his chest and kneading his arse, Harry came again in short order, spilling into Hermione’s mouth as he moaned into Ron’s. He’d tried to take a step back, tried to pull away from Hermione when he could feel his climax approaching, but they both held him firmly.

“Think you’ll have any more trouble wanking in the shower now?” Ron asked, taking a step back and smiling at Harry, but still holding onto him to help keep him steady while Harry tried to catch his breath and blink the spots out of his vision, still clinging to Ron’s shoulder for support.

Harry shook his head, red faced again and weak with exhaustion, his heart still pounding.

“Not that I ever want you to wank again without me watching, you understand,” he added. “God damn, that was sexy!”

“I think you just get off at bossing me around. Don’t you?” Harry asked, feeling light headed as he helped Hermione up by the hand.

“Hell yes! I loved it,” Ron replied with an emphatic nod of his head. Then he grinned hugely.

Rolling his eyes, Harry, pulled Hermione into his embrace. “You’re beautiful,” he told her, nuzzling her hair. “What are you doing with a berk like that?”

Hermione giggled into his chest as he turned her away from Ron, and Ron let out an indignant, “Hey!”

Harry walked Hermione backwards, steering her towards the bed. Grabbing a handful of his arse, Hermione squeezed playfully as Ron growled behind them before following.

“Harry only likes me bossing him around, Ron. Don’t you, Harry?” she asked.

Harry snorted into her neck in reply.

“All right, I’ll keep letting you boss him around when our clothes are on, then, if you let me boss him around when they’re off,” Ron offered, pressing himself against Harry’s back and pulling Harry into him by the hips.

“Do I get a say at all in who gets to boss me around and when?” Harry asked, trying to sound affronted.

“NO,” they answered in unison.

Harry smiled, following Hermione down onto the bed. She took the middle this time, and Harry lay down next to her on the opposite side than he usually did while Ron crawled over them both.

“Goodnight, darling,” Hermione whispered, removing his glasses from his face as Ron spooned himself against her back and stared over her shoulder down at Harry.

“Night,” he mumbled back. Then utterly exhausted, feeling replete, he curled up next to her and fell asleep.

Hermione woke him up in the middle of the night, and they made love next to a snoring Ron. Harry was less timid this time and actually managed to bring her to orgasm, which was a huge relief. Of course, it could have been that she was already primed before waking him, or that her body was still sensitive from her earlier release, so it may not have been based on anything he’d done particularly well. Afterwards they spoke in whispers, Hermione with her head on his chest, Harry stroking her back.

“I wish I still had my Firebolt and could go flying. I miss being in the air so much. I know you don’t know what I’m talking about, Hermione. You’ve never much liked flying, but it’s the only time I’ve ever felt completely free.”

“You look like a bird whey you fly, so graceful. It’s breathtaking to watch.” 

“It’s the most wonderful feeling. Sometimes I just want to take off and leave all of this on the ground behind me, even if only for a little while,” he told her wistfully. 

“Just don’t leave us behind,” she cautioned, kissing him on the neck and stroking his cheek.

“I wish I could actually. I wish I could keep you both safe and stop you from coming with me.”

“We’d never let you face this alone, Harry.”

“I know… and I also know that I can’t do it without you, but I wish that weren’t true.”

“Well, don’t think about it then, and just dream about flying instead. Close your eyes,” she whispered.

He did while she stroked his eyebrows with her thumb.

“Feel the wind in your face and the rush of the air in your ears. Feel it pull at your clothes as gravity tries to tug you back to earth while you defy it by outrunning it.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me, Hermione?” Harry asked, his lips quirking as he opened one eye to peer at her.

“Shush,” she said, admonishingly, thumbing his eyelid closed again, but then she chuckled. “I don’t think there’s a soul in this world who could hypnotize you, Mr. I-can’t-be-Imperioused-Potter. I’m just trying to give you good things to dream about tonight.”

“M’kay,” he agreed sleepily.

But she was completely wrong about being hypnotized or Imperioused. She and Ron had him under their complete control, he thought as she pressed her lips to his. And that was all he remembered as he drifted back into sleep.

He woke in the morning with the growling of his stomach, tangled up in Hermione and fully rested. Her attempt to plant a dream in him hadn’t worked, though. He hadn’t dreamt of flying at all. In fact, his sleep was uninterrupted by any disturbing dreams or nightmares for the first time in many days.

They lay in bed a while after they all woke up before Hermione finally decided to get up and get a shower after watching, at her request, Ron and Harry rid themselves of their morning wood into each other’s mouths before heading downstairs.

They were much later getting to Bill’s this morning than yesterday. Hermione had cleaned Harry’s jacket while he and Ron got their showers. She met him at the door of the bathroom holding something out to him in her fingers. Several long, curly, black hairs were trapped between her fingers. Harry didn’t have to ask who they belonged to.

“Where did you get those?” he asked.

“Off your jacket. They were in the pocket. You must have yanked them loose yesterday.”

“So now we have her hair and wand, and Draco’s hair and wand, but still no key. Have you started the Polyjuice potion?”

“I… I didn’t get the potion ingredients I needed. I fled the shop before I could pay for them when I saw the spells flying in the alley out the window. And I don’t think I can go back for them now, either.”

“No, we can’t risk going back. They won’t soon forget us, I’m afraid. The Death Eaters are probably staking out the whole alley now in case we turn up again. So, that leaves us with just the one dose.”

“Yes,” she agreed heavily.

Hermione seemed disappointed, but Harry was actually a bit relieved. He was never keen on the idea of waiting around for a whole month before making an attempt on the bank, anyway. This limited their options and made things much more straight forward.

“Well, without more potion, or a key, it makes our persuasion of Griphook that much more important. If he still has access to Gringotts, we’ll need him more than ever.”

“But if the Death Eaters truly are watching Diagon Alley now, it’s going to make getting into the bank that much harder.”

“I know, but we have to get that Horcrux. It’s the only one we have a lead on right now.”

Before they left for Bill’s, Harry tore out the final page of his journal with the list of people’s names on it. But instead of crumbling it into a ball and throwing it away, he folded it tightly and placed it in his Mokeskin pouch where it joined his growing collection of broken promises and dreams: his mother’s letter, a dream of his shattered family, the mirror shard, a crushed hope of speaking to his Godfather again and seeing his face, his wand, with its splintered promise of protection, and the snitch and the vial of memories, a fractured trust.

That list had gnawed at him all day yesterday as he dug Dobby’s grave. The death of his friend had finally doused Harry’s desire for revenge. It no longer burned in his gut. The loss of such an innocent as a direct result of Harry’s blind lust for blood had finally made him let it go. What it had cost him just wasn’t worth it. The momentary satisfaction of exacting his revenge was in no way equal to the grief he felt at Dobby’s loss and would always carry with him. 

The victory of Rowle’s death had been hollow. It didn’t fill the hole inside him. It didn’t repair the broken pieces of himself or return to him the things that were stolen. It only damaged him more. Why was the price for him finally gaining that knowledge so high? Why did it have to hurt so bad to learn it?

 

* * *

 

Everyone was already up and finishing breakfast when they arrived at Shell Cottage, and when Harry inquired about the goblin, they learned that he was conscious, but still recovering in bed. Before Harry could even ask to speak with him, Bill pulled him aside.

“Look, Harry,” he began without preamble. “I know what you want with Griphook, but I have to warn you. Be very careful in your negotiations. Goblins are extremely crafty, and they’re not like humans. Their ways of thinking are very different from ours. Whatever deal you strike with him to gain his cooperation will be to his benefit, not yours. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Bill, but I can’t get into the bank without him.”

“And he’ll know that better than you, which gives him the upper hand.”

“Griphook is on our side. He’s been on the run with Dean for months—”

“He’s still a goblin, Harry. I doubt very much if he’s on anyone’s side. They care very little about Wizard’s wars. In fact, the more of us that are dead, the happier they’ll be. If he agrees to help you, he’ll want something in return. I can’t convince you to abandon this plan, but please heed my warning, all right? Tread carefully is all I’m saying.”

“Okay, Bill, I will. I promise.”

Bill sighed, looking as if he might decide to refuse to let Harry speak with Griphook at all, but in the end he capitulated and led Harry, Ron and Hermione to the room opposite Ollivander’s where the goblin was resting. He was sitting propped up on the bed, much like Ollivander had been the day before, staring out the window at the garden below when the three of them filed into the room.

“Griphook, I’m sorry to bother you,” Harry began. “I don’t know if you remember me, but you were the goblin—”

“That showed you to your vault the first time you ever visited Gringotts?” Griphook finished, turning his small, black eyes on Harry. “Yes, Harry Potter, I remember you. Even amongst my race, you are very famous.”

“Right, well… I was hoping to speak with you,” Harry tried again, feeling slightly wrong footed.

“You buried the elf,” the goblin interrupted once more, his tone aggressive, almost accusatory. 

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised by his rudeness and irritated by his callous comment about Dobby’s death. “Yes, I did,” he replied, through gritted teeth.

“I watched from the window,” Griphook continued, oblivious to Harry’s annoyed tone as he pointed a long finger in the direction of the window. Then he went silent for a moment as if revisiting the memory before he spoke again. “You dug the grave.”

“He was my friend,” Harry explained curtly.

“You rescued me from the dungeons,” the goblin said next in that same aggressive tone.

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of him. Was he angry, or was that just the way goblins expressed dismay? Whatever it was, his manner was off-putting. It made Harry feel defensive.

“Hermione and Dobby did that, actually,” Harry corrected him, gesturing to Hermione who stood silently with Ron in the corner.

“You are an uncommon wizard, Harry Potter,” Griphook announced as if he hadn’t heard Harry’s words.

“You’re an uncommon goblin, Griphook, from what I understand. And an uncommon goblin is what I’m looking for,” Harry replied. “I need help with something, and I think only a goblin will be able to do it.”

“What help do you require from my kind?” 

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione before taking a deep breath to steel himself for the goblin’s reaction. “I need help getting into one of the vaults at Gringotts.”

Griphook’s black eyes narrowed.

“I need something out of her vault. The one that did that to you,” Harry continued, pointing at the goblin’s battered face. “The Lestrange vault. I thought you might be willing to help us after what she did to you.”

“I am not a thief, Mr. Potter!”

“Nor am I, Griphook! What we need from her vault doesn’t belong to her. It was taken from someone else, and we need to get it back.”

“You have no chance of succeeding.”

“If you help us we would,” Ron interjected.

“The vaults have been broken into before. The same day we met, Griphook.”

“The vault to which you refer was empty at the time, Mr. Potter.  Its protection was minimal. You will not find the Lestrange vault to be in a similar state. It will be well protected.”

“Which is why we’re asking for your help,” Harry replied patiently.

“If it is the sword you seek, you will be most disappointed. It is a fake.”

Harry was taken aback. So it was Bellatrix’s vault into which Snape had placed the fake sword. And Snape must have known even then it was a replica, knew where the real one was hidden because it was he who had delivered it to Harry, presumably on Dumbledore’s orders, for Harry had to admit that there was no other explanation for Snape to have given it to them. 

“It’s not the sword I want. I have the real sword.”

“You have the Sword of Gryffindor?” the goblin asked skeptically.

“Yes, Dumbledore left it to me in his will.”

“Show it to me! Let me see it,” Griphook demanded.

Harry hesitated, knowing he’d made a mistake admitting that they possessed the sword. He didn’t like the slightly greedy look in the goblin’s eyes or the way he barked the command, but what choice did he have? They needed his cooperation. Turning to Hermione then, Harry nodded, and she reached for her beaded bag, tucked in the waistband of her jeans. Ron made a sound somewhere between a grunt of disapproval and a threatening growl. Pulling the sword from its depths, Hermione handed it to Harry, though the goblin had stretched out his hand for it. When his long fingers twitched impatiently, Harry reluctantly handed it over.

Griphook examined it for a long time before he spoke. “This is the true sword. Forged centuries ago by Goblins and then stolen from them.”

“It belonged to Godric Gryffindor, and now to Harry,” Ron contradicted him irritably.

Griphook and Ron glared at each other. This was not going the way Harry had planned. Things were starting to fall apart before he’d even had a proper chance to gain the goblin’s trust and state his case.

“Listen, Griphook. We really need to get into that vault, and I would very much appreciate your help. I’d be grateful for any assistance at all you might we willing to give us.”

Griphook focused his intelligent black eyes back on Harry, studying him shrewdly while Harry tried to hold his gaze without fidgeting. The silence wore on between them until Harry began to feel as if they were in some sort of staring contest. Harry knew instinctively that there was only one rule: don’t be the first to look away. So he stared calmly back into Griphook’s battered face, intent on waiting him out. 

Finally, the goblin spoke. “I will consider your request,” he told Harry imperiously.

“For how long?” Harry asked.

“Come back tomorrow, and you will have your answer.”

“I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need to know now, Griphook. Will you help us?”

Griphook glared at him. Harry knew he was pushing his luck, but they were in a power struggle. The goblin was testing him, and Harry couldn’t fail.

“We’re planning to spend the day here so I’ll give you until this afternoon to think it over.” With that he turned and strode back out of the room without giving Griphook a chance to counter.

“He’s a foul, little bullying git, isn’t he?” Ron spat in a forced whisper as he shut the door behind him. 

“Ron!” Hermione admonished, shushing him and pulling him away from the door.

“What? I’m just saying, you think he’d be grateful after you saved his life and Bill and Fleur healed his injures and allowed him to stay in their home.”

“He’s not what I expected, I’ll admit,” Harry agreed. “But I need you to play nice with him, Ron. We need him.”

“Fine, I’ll play nice. But you’re Harry Fucking Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and all that. He should show a little respect.”

“Harry Fucking Potter? Jesus, Ron, really?” Harry snorted.

“Well, you are. Do you think he’d talk like that to You Know Who?”

“I’m not a Dark Lord, Ron. I’m just some seventeen-year-old kid who’s on the run, same as him. And if he knows my reputation, he’s right to be leery of associating with me. Those who do usually end up dead.”

They whiled away the afternoon, chatting with the occupants of Shell Cottage, trading stories with Dean and Luna about their time on the run or at Hogwarts this past year. Hermione and Luna helped Fleur with lunch, and Harry spent some time in the garden visiting Dobby’s grave before Bill came out to tell him that Griphook was asking for him.

Exerting his power over the proceedings, Griphook made them wait out his decision. Harry stood calmly, but beside him, Ron shifted irritably from foot to foot.

“I will help you, Harry Potter. But I want payment in return for my services.”

“How much? I have gold in my vault. If you get us in there, you can have whatever you want.”

“I don’t want gold. I have gold,” he replied dismissively.

“Then what?” Harry asked.

“I want the sword. The Sword of Gryffindor.”

“No bleeding way!” Ron shouted, outraged.

Harry put a restraining hand on Ron’s shoulder. “I can’t give you that, Griphook. We need it.”

“Then we have no deal.”

FUCK! They couldn’t give him the sword, and they had nothing else of value to trade. Griphook was capitalizing on his mistake of mentioning the damn thing. Now what? Harry wracked his brain trying to come up with a suitable alternative, but it was Ron who made the next suggestion. Turns out, however, it was the wrong one.

“There’s got to be loads of valuable stuff inside the Lestrange vault. If you get us in there, you can take your pick of the lot.” Ron offered.

“I’ve told you. I’m not a thief, boy,” the goblin shot back angrily. “The price for my help is the sword. Take it or leave it.”

Harry looked at Ron and Hermione, trying to read their thoughts. Ron was red faced and furious. Hermione looked tense and worried. Finally, Harry turned back to the goblin.

“I need to think about it, Griphook.” He needed time to confer with them privately, to come up with a plan.

“What is there to think about? It’s yes or no, Harry Potter.”

“If I have to decide right now, then the answer is no, but give me some time to consider it, and I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

With that, it was time, once again, for the staring contest, and for the second time, Harry won. The Goblin finally nodded curtly and dismissed them with an impatient wave of his hand. Harry took the hint and left the room.

Skipping the offer of dinner, they left Shell Cottage and headed back to Number Twelve almost immediately after leaving the goblin. They had a lot to discuss, privately.

~ . ~

 


	37. Backsliding

Ron started cursing the minute their tongues uncurled from Moody’s curse when they arrived back at Grimmauld Place. He raged and stormed all the way up the stairs and into the drawing room, livid at Griphook’s demands and incensed by his superior behavior. It took Harry and Hermione several minutes before they could calm him down enough to discuss their options rationally. The problem was; they had no options.

“We can’t give him the sword!”

“He won’t agree to help us if we don’t.”

“Yes, but we need that sword to get rid of the Horcruxes. It’s the only thing we have to destroy them.”

“I know that, but we can’t get _to_ the Horcrux unless we give him the sword!”

It went round and round like that for the better part of an hour before they finally talked themselves into silence, and still they had no solution. Mostly the debate was between Harry and Hermione. Ron offered very little in the way of an answer to their dilemma except to make some suggestions on where he’d like to put the sword when, and if, they handed it over to Griphook, which seemed more and more the likely outcome as they had absolutely nothing else to offer the goblin in trade. Now the trick was working out how to agree to give Griphook the sword without really doing so until after all the Horcruxes were destroyed. Ron suggested they simply double cross the ‘beady-eyed bastard’ and give him the fake sword once they were in the vault, but that proposal didn’t sit well with Hermione, who looked scandalized by the idea. 

“Even if we tried that, Ron, Griphook would know better than us which sword is the fake,” she pointed out crossly at the conclusion of her litany of reasons why Ron’s suggestion was a poor one.

Ron had no argument to that logic, apparently, which just made him angrier, and he reverted, once again, to spewing his distaste of the goblin. So the bickering continued. Hermione was irritated with Ron’s irrational (her term) dislike of the goblin, and Ron was irritated at what he saw as Griphook’s inexcusable ungratefulness and Hermione’s willingness to overlook it. 

Harry thought Ron had a point. Griphook wasn’t very pleasant, but taking offense to his ways wouldn’t help them in their dealings with him, and not dealing with him wasn’t an option either. They needed the goblin’s cooperation, whatever his demands, and wasn’t that just the way Harry’s life went? Fucked no matter which way he turned. He was coming to expect nothing less. It reminded him again of Draco’s snide comment about his luck. Feeling weary and irritable himself, Harry rubbed at his face in frustration.

“Come on,” he finally interrupted, putting an end, at least temporarily, to their bickering. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

His appetite, which had abandoned him yesterday, was back again today in full force, and that was good because the last thing he needed was to go off food again. Harry found the ingredients for bangers and mash which was an easy and fairly quick meal to make. Ron sat on the kitchen counter peeling potatoes by hand into the kitchen sink as Harry fried up the sausages before slicing up onions and caramelizing them for the gravy while the potatoes boiled. Meanwhile, Hermione threw together the makings of a bread and butter pudding for afters. Harry and Hermione avoided more talk of Griphook, and instead, bantered lightly about other topics, discussing some of the tales Dean and Luna had shared with them earlier in the day while they worked and Ron brooded. Then Harry served up three heaping plates, and the three of them hungrily devoured their supper. 

Ron’s mood improved (as was usually the case), once his belly was full, and talk returned again to the ‘goblin problem’, as Ron had dubbed it, while they had pudding. They all agreed that they shouldn’t hand over the sword until after Griphook had gotten them safely in and out of the bank. Then they could at least use the sword to destroy the Horcrux before they had to relinquish it. Hopefully, that plan would also guarantee the goblin’s full cooperation to fulfill his end of the bargain. This was assuming, of course, that Griphook would be agreeable to these terms.

When they went up to bed that night, Hermione grasped him by the hand before Harry made another attempt to leave them, which, naturally, had been his plan. He’d hoped to give them some time alone together to reconcile fully after their earlier disagreement, but they both argued against it. So Harry allowed himself, once again, to be led by Hermione and pushed by Ron up the stairs with shamefully little resistance because at the first touch of her hand he’d felt his cock harden and his pulse quicken. His body was already becoming conditioned to anticipate them and react like one of Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the sound of a bell.

He’d have to get control over that reflexive impulse, but it wouldn’t be tonight. Right now, he still couldn’t say no. He was unable to fight his body’s response, or even attempt to resist. The moon was finally waning; his over-stimulated senses slowly returning to normal, yet it hadn’t reduced his desire for them. Perhaps now that he’d experienced that kind of intimacy with them, it never would.

Everything inside him wanted to let go his conscience and be with them, to embrace this fully whatever the consequences. Everything except his heart which still ached for another, despite the knowledge that Ginny would despise him if she knew what he’d done and was doing. Even with that constant, gnawing guilt, Harry couldn’t stop accepting what they were offering him, or he was simply unwilling because it was more than just physical with them. Ron and Hermione made him feel safe, desired, cherished even, and he craved that more than he wanted to admit. There was so much to fear both from the dangers of what prowled outside in the shadows and what lurked inside himself, but alone with the two of them, Harry didn’t feel afraid, and he needed that reprieve above all else right now. ~~~~

When they arrived in Sirius’ room, Harry managed to undress himself without Ron’s assistance this time, but he still insisted on a shower again before bed. He wasn’t unaccompanied tonight, however. Both Ron and Hermione joined him unexpectedly in the bath, startling him slightly when Ron wrapped his arms around Harry and pulled him flush against his body. His head had been under the warms spray, his eyes closed, so he didn’t realize they’d come in. Ron turned him around to face Hermione, who tugged the soapy rag from his hand and dropped it unceremoniously onto the tub floor. Apparently, Harry was as clean as he was going to get tonight.

His body came alive and his brain went numb when Ron began massaging his chest and rubbing himself against Harry’s bum, making him rub against Hermione when she pressed herself against him. Already panting, his head fell back onto Ron’s shoulder when their hands began exploring him and his began exploring them. While Ron supported him and held him upright, their mouths nipped and sucked along his chest and up his neck, their hands traveling down his stomach and up his thighs until they met around his excited cock.

After the indescribable sensation of being jerked off by the combination of both their slippery hands working his shaft simultaneously, Harry found himself on his knees again in the crowded tub. Touching Hermione where he’d never touched a woman before, he felt all the secret places inside her with his fingers while she ground against his hand. He stroked Ron’s cock with the other, alternately lapping at them both as the warm spray of the shower rained down on him, and his own cock stiffened once more between his legs. When Ron had found his release, Harry turned his full attention to Hermione and did his best to pleasure her with his hands and mouth, determined to bring her off. Once Ron recovered, he bent his head and slurped Hermione’s pebbled nipple into his mouth. Pinning her to the tub wall to support her weight, Ron scooped her leg up with his arm giving Harry more access to her, and she moaned in encouragement.

“Yes!” she gasped. “Oh, God, Harry. Right there, just like that!” Then she was palming the back of his wet head to hold him to her, straining and crying out. And when she climaxed, her toes actually did curl.

Damn, it was sexy! Harry smiled against her with satisfaction as she clenched around his fingers and pulsed against his tongue, which made his dick throb with the desire to be inside her. She was panting, limp with exhaustion after her release. Ron eased her leg down, supporting her until she found purchase on the slick tub bottom while Harry reached around and slapped the faucet off before getting back to his feet with a groan.

If he was going to spend all their time together on his knees, he’d have to remember to do a cushioning charm, or something. Christ, his kneecaps ached!

They toweled each other off quickly before moving to the bedroom, and Harry spent the third night after Dobby’s death in Sirius’ bed, back on his usual side with Hermione sandwiched between his and Ron’s bodies. With her back to Ron, Hermione lay facing Harry, which made him feel slightly guilty because Ron always seemed to be in the back, allowing Harry to hog all of Hermione’s attention. Both Ron and Hermione appeared to be comfortable with the position, though, or even preferred it, since it gave Ron easier access to all her lovely bits, his hands in constant motion. Besides, the fact was that Ron was the largest of the three and could support more of their weight, making it the most logical arrangement for all of them. 

When Ron entered her from behind, Hermione threw her leg over Harry’s waist and pulled his head down to her breast. Latching on, Harry then gripped Ron by the arse and pulled them into him to rub fervently against her front. Hermione came twice more as she prolonged their release by cruelly pulling off one of their swollen cocks when they were close and onto the other waiting impatiently for her before either of them could orgasm. They sure as hell weren’t complaining though. When Harry’s release finally did come, it drained him completely. He felt as if he’d emptied all his energy and magic into her along with his seed where it joined Ron’s, leaving him as weak as a newborn in a tangle of damp bed sheets, sweaty limbs, and panting bodies.

Afterwards, Hermione stroked his face, running her fingers across his jaw while he lay prone next to her with his eyes closed, but still breathing heavily, feeling incredibly weak. God, he was totally knackered. They could have told him Voldemort was at the door, and he didn’t think he could have mustered the strength to care right now. Ron and Hermione had inadvertently found the key to his demise, his Achilles’ heel. All that was needed to lay him defenseless and at their mercy was to fuck him into oblivion. Well, actually, maybe the Death Eaters already knew that, he thought. Bellatrix, in particular, had certainly done her best, succeeding in raping him raw and draining him dry.

“You have such a strong jaw,” Hermione told him in a whisper. “I actually think it’s one of your best features, besides those long black eyelashes that every girl envies, of course.”

“My jaw’s not very strong,” he replied drowsily, frowning slightly. “Bellatrix managed to shatter it with one well placed kick.”

Her hands froze on his face for a second at the mention of Bellatrix’s name, and Harry was quite surprised himself that he’d actually said at all, especially without shuddering. He chalked it up to utter exhaustion and the deliriousness of being half asleep. Still, saying her name at all was an improvement, which he owed to both Ron and Hermione. Certainly, the hold Bellatrix had on him physically appeared to be waning finally, but perhaps it was psychologically, as well. Harry hoped so, anyway.

“That’s not what I meant,” Hermione said, tugging playfully on his chin.

“Well, if we’re comparing features, you have a beautiful arse and a perfect nose,” Harry mumbled, smirking slightly before yawning. Then dragging a heavy arm up, eyes still closed, he felt around blindly over her face before tweaking her nose while she snorted in amusement.

“What’s my best feature, then?” Ron asked petulantly.

“Your lips,” Harry and Hermione replied in unison.

Harry smirked again before rolling over to face the window. “Give your boyfriend some affection. I think he’s feeling insecure and needs his ego stroked cos I’m just so damned pretty, apparently, not to mention famous.” He yawned again. “I mean, I am Harry Fucking Potter, after all.”

“What you are is a fucking ponce,” Ron replied before slapping Harry on the back of the head. 

Harry chuckled as Hermione turned to face Ron instead, while Ron stroked Harry’s head where he’d just struck him, as if soothing the spot. Then he slid it down to the base of Harry’s head and began massaging his shoulder and neck. Harry groaned into the pillow. It felt really good.

“I love the color of your hair, Ron. And your navy eyes, and the breadth of your shoulders, and the size of your hands, and all the freckles across your chest that I’ve started naming,” Hermione whispered between the sounds of them kissing and the continued stroking of Ron’s thumb up the back of Harry’s neck.

“Yeah? What’s this one’s name, then?”  Ron whispered in amusement.

“That’s your nipple, Ron, not a freckle.” Then more kissing as Hermione was, no doubt, now showering his nameless nipple with attention.

Harry listened, his chest constricting with a mixture of relief and envy. God, he loved being here with them like this, needed it, but he couldn’t allow himself to continue to get so psychologically attached and emotionally dependent on them. Already, the idea that they might want his leeching of their affection to end threatened to devastate him. But their interest and fascination at having him in their bed couldn’t go on indefinitely. Eventually, they’d tire of him. He was simply the newest toy in the toy box, and soon the shiny would wear off. That was the warning he had to keep repeating to himself. That was the inevitable reality for which he must prepare. This was fleeting. He knew that, even if they didn’t yet, or wouldn’t admit it.

What they had with each other was genuine, unwavering love. What he had with them was an intensely devoted friendship polluted by a mixture of pity, guilt, gratitude, mutual dependency and an overpowering lust. Soon their infatuation would fade, and three would, once again, desire to become two. Harry needed to be strong enough not to fall apart when it did, to be able to let go and stand on his own when that day came, or he would lose not only the warmth of their bodies, but their friendship, too.

_I’ll try again tomorrow_ , he told himself.  _I’ll try harder_. ~~~~

Listening to them express their mutual adoration of each other, and lulled by the rhythm of Ron’s caress, Harry finally drifted off to sleep, which was without any dreams or interruptions by Ron or Hermione during the night. Perhaps they weren’t able to rouse him, or they chose to engage each other instead for some middle of the night love making. Or maybe, like him, they were simply sated and too exhausted for more.

Harry slept like the dead. In fact, he hadn’t even moved from the spot he’d fallen asleep in as if he’d been drugged and knocked unconscious for the entire night, though he was sure he hadn’t been. It left him feeling groggy and disoriented the next morning. It took him a few tries to coordinate all his limbs to get himself off the bed so he could stagger to the loo to take a much needed piss. He looked comical when he got a glimpse of himself in the newly repaired mirror, having slept on damp hair so that it dried into a wild mess, sticking up in some places and plastered to his head in others. God, it needed to be cut, and he mentally reminded himself again to ask Hermione later if she’d be willing to attempt it.

With the other two still asleep, Harry jumped in the tub to finish his interrupted shower from the night before. They were just waking up when he returned to the bedroom, both of them looking as hilarious as he had and as equally uncoordinated crawling out of the bed and stumbling around the room. Yet still, the sight of them in all their naked glory caused arousal to stir in him again.

“Sexy,” Harry commented with a snort when Ron scratched his balls on his way past. 

Ron mumbled something in reply which sounded a little like, “go fuck yourself,” but Harry couldn’t be sure because in the next instant, he reached out unexpectedly and pulled Harry to him by the head. Desire surged in Harry when Ron’s lips crashed over his, sending heat all the way through him. Ron kissed him briefly, but possessively, before pulling away.

“You taste minty,” Ron remarked as he continued towards the bathroom after releasing a startled Harry.

“Well, you don’t,” Harry replied to Ron’s retreating back, feeling slightly wobbly in his wake.

“Sorry. Gimme a minute and I’ll take care of that.”

What he took care of as soon as he’d emptied his bladder, however, was Harry’s lingering erection. Pushing Harry down on the bed without warning when he’d returned, and then kneeling on the floor between Harry’s legs while Hermione watched, Ron enveloped him with those lips and brought him quickly to orgasm. Then before Harry had even recovered, he stood back up, wiping at his mouth and smiled down at Harry who was sprawled  boneless on the bed, dazed and staring up at him.

“Jesus, Ron. What the hell was that?” Harry gasped as he tried to catch his breath, his heart still pounding in the aftermath of his release.

“An apology for my morning mouth. I figured you wouldn’t mind as much if I kissed you there, instead.”

“I didn’t mind either way, but maybe you could give me a little warning or something next time?” Harry replied weakly.

Shrugging, Ron turned, kissed Hermione on the neck and then returned to the bathroom to get a shower.

“I feel like I was just the main entrée at breakfast, or something,” Harry growled in dismay.

“You do look delectable,” Hermione responded, grinning at him as he struggled to sit up. “But I’m hungry for something a little more filling this morning.”

“Ouch! That hurts,” Harry replied, pouting sullenly at the implied slight to his manhood. “I suppose you’ll have to wait for Ron to finish his shower then, if you need something more filling than me.”

“Oh, stop it. That’s not what I meant,” she said with a snort. “You’re as bad as he is sometimes.”

“He is a bad influence,” Harry agreed. “And entirely too cocky.”

Hermione nodded.

When they headed downstairs, Hermione decided that it was Ron’s turn to make breakfast that morning while she got a shower, which meant that they ate at Bill’s instead. Then they grimly went to meet Griphook, who was still taking his meals in his room, evidently not yet recovered from his wounds and too weak to walk. At least that’s what he’d told Fleur when she went to check on him. It was clear by her tone, however, that she believed otherwise and was not pleased to be catering to him.

He was still sitting propped up on the bed, the breakfast tray set off to one side when they entered. He took his time, making a show of things by dabbing his mouth with the napkin and wiping his hands before tossing it onto the tray. Then he turned his attention to the three of them and raised his eyebrows.

“What is your decision, Harry Potter?” he asked in way of greeting, but with an air of supreme indifference, which made Harry clench his fists.

Battling back for control of the negotiations, Harry took his own time in responding, as if he were still thinking it over. In actuality, he was trying to decide how best to give in to his demands without losing too much of the balance of power between them, and also to frustrate the goblin some if he were being honest. 

Hoping to make him flinch, to betray himself and show his eagerness for his terms to be granted, Harry waited. Griphook blinked once and glanced briefly at Hermione to see if she carried the beaded bag, and that was all Harry needed. Griphook badly wanted that sword. That being the case, Harry felt sure that he would do all he could to satisfy his end of the bargain to gain it.

“The sword is yours,” he finally answered.

Griphook immediately stretched out his hand to receive it, but Hermione made no move to remove it from her bag. 

“You get it _after_ you get us safely in _and_ out of the bank, Griphook. Those are my terms,” Harry amended warningly. “Take it or leave it.”

Scowling at Harry, the goblin dropped his hand while Harry stared calmly back into those narrowed black eyes. 

“Agreed,” he finally growled.

“Fine then,” Harry responded, nodding his head.

“Shall we begin?” Griphook asked irritably, gesturing for Harry to take a seat in the sole chair in the room, but Hermione took it instead. All business, she sat down and swiftly dug out parchment and quill from her bag as if she were the group’s designated secretary, readying herself to take the notes of their first official meeting.

The four of them spent the entire day in the tiny bedroom, only leaving when one of them had to go to the bathroom or when Ron went to make some sandwiches for lunch, which were met with disdain by Griphook when Ron returned with a plate stacked high. This further deteriorated Ron’s opinion of the goblin and his resolve not to throttle him. Harry was starting to feel claustrophobic by the time Bill knocked on the door to let them know supper was ready, and they finally broke for the day. He had a headache, and Hermione had pages of notes, yet they hadn’t even gotten very far today. Harry was already starting to dread the number of days he saw stretching out in front of him locked together in this room trying to keep Ron from murdering their accomplice. This was going to take careful planning, though, even with Griphook as their guide which diminished Harry’s hopes of getting to that Horcrux quickly and ridding himself of the unpleasant goblin’s presence for good.

“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight, Griphook?” Bill asked.

“No. I’ve not yet recovered enough,” he answered dismissively. “I’ll take my meal here.”

Bill pursed his lips, but nodded and turned on his heels, perhaps not looking forward to telling his wife the goblin’s demands. It made Harry feel guilty for forcing them to endure Griphook, especially realizing how long it would have to continue. Having spent the entire day with him, Harry wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But moving him to Grimmauld Place wasn’t an option either. Hermione absolutely refused to allow anyone else admittance into Number Twelve when Griphook demanded to come with them once he realized they were not staying at Shell Cottage round the clock, even though they’d told him it was just too crowded. Voicing his misgivings that they would take his information and leave him without his prize, he then wanted them to leave the sword here as insurance that they would return. Harry refused, of course, not trusting that the goblin wouldn’t just sneak away with it in the night. The mutual distrust they’d both revealed in that brief exchange caused suspicion to take root, weakening their alliance. It was another mistake Harry wished he could have avoided.

“I’ll bring you your meal, Griphook,” Harry said tiredly as Hermione gathered up her notes. Then he turned and followed Ron from the room.

“I’ve decided to move Mr. Ollivander to Aunt Muriel’s as soon as he’s able,” Bill announced conversationally to the table at large during supper. “Maybe in a few more days. I think he’ll be more comfortable there, and we could use the space. We can put Luna in his room then and get her off the couch, but with Griphook staying, that still leaves Dean having to double for space. So if you want, you can go, too, Dean. Aunt Muriel has loads of room, and the twins and Ginny are there for company. I know Ginny would love that. She’s probably going spare over there with just Fred and George for company.”

Harry’s fork had frozen on the way to his mouth, and his whole body tensed at the suggestion of Dean joining Ginny at Muriel’s. The idea of them sleeping under the same roof, sharing meals and possibly rekindling their relationship caused that familiar jealousy to surge in him. Picturing them, lips locked together behind a tapestry in the Hogwarts corridors or snuggled next to each other in a booth at The Three Broomsticks made Harry clench his jaw. His head gave a painful throb, and he dropped the fork back onto his plate when his hand started to shake. Looking up, he saw that everyone at the table had their eyes on him.

“Griphook and I have been sharing sleeping quarters for quite a while now. I don’t mind rooming with him, Bill.” Dean answered into the silence, but his response was to Harry, whose eyes he held. “I mean, unless I’m in the way here,” he added, glancing back at Bill.

“Bien sûr,” Fleur assured Dean quickly. “Bill and I enjoy ze company. Sometimes it gets so lonely ‘ere.”

Harry had no right to be upset with Dean, certainly not in light of the current circumstances of his relationship with Ron and Hermione. He didn’t own Ginny or have any right to say with whom she could spend her time. He’d given up any claim to her when he’d walked away from her that day of Ron’s party, and certainly killed any hope of returning to her after what happened the day Dobby died and every day since, but it didn’t seem to matter to his jealous heart. Ginny and Dean were blameless and did not deserve his anger. He deserved theirs. He was the one betraying Ginny every night with Ron and Hermione, and he was the reason why Dean and Luna were taken to Malfoy Manor to be tortured for information. 

Harry knew he was being an arse. He’d just been blindsided by Bill’s suggestion is all, unprepared for his reaction, but he needed to get used to it. Ginny wasn’t his any longer and never could be again. He should be glad to think that they might be able to find happiness together in these dark times, he told himself, but even in his head, the words sounded hollow. 

Harry tried to relax his shoulders and unclench his jaw, to say something conciliatory or lie and say he thought it would be great if Dean wanted to keep Ginny company at Muriel’s, but he couldn’t. The words would be just as wooden and insincere as the ones in his head. Instead, he picked up his fork and returned his eyes to his dinner, remaining mute on the subject as he pushed around the pasta on his plate.

“Well, what about you Luna? Would you like to move to Muriel’s?”

“Oh, I’d love to see Ginny, but I really fancy it here. It’s so beautiful, and I like helping out. I feel more useful, and I don’t mind taking the couch. It’s a lot more comfortable that what I’ve been sleeping on recently. Maybe Ginny can come here for a visit soon if she’s lonely?”

Harry could feel them all staring at him again, and his heart started to pound at the idea of facing Ginny, but it was Hermione that spoke. “I really don’t think that’s a very good idea right now, Luna.”

“You mean because you and Harry are together now?” Luna asked. “Have they had a row about it?”

Harry’s mouth opened in shock, his eyes jerking upward and widening as he gaped at Luna. Fleur had braided her long hair and wisps curled around her innocent looking face, framing those large eyes which stared into Harry’s with frank curiosity. The dangling radish earrings had been replaced with tiny spiraling seashells and she twirled one with her fingers absently as she considered him.

“They haven’t had a row, Luna. Harry stopped seeing Ginny at the end of last year,” Ron explained matter-of-factly.

“Yes. But Ginny still talked about him all the time at Hogwarts, so I thought she might be put out now that—” 

“It’d just be a bit uncomfortable, is all. And you’ve got the wrong end of that, too. Hermione’s my girl,” Ron interrupted smoothly.

“Oh, I know, but I thought… it’s just that you all seem… well, it doesn’t matter. Still, Bill, if I may, I’d like to stay here, too.”

Harry snapped his mouth closed and dropped his gaze from Luna’s perceptive blue eyes, which he felt were x-raying him, seeing all the shame and guilt inside him, and returned, once again, to focus on his plate. If talk continued around him, he could no longer hear it over the roaring in his ears and the panicked hammering of his chest while his mind spun in all directions.

He should have known that this couldn’t be kept private. Soon, everyone would know that he was having sex with both Ron and Hermione, and that talk would join the speculation about what had happened to them during their capture, which, without a doubt, had been discussed in detail in _The Daily Prophet_ for weeks now. The Death Eaters had surely gleefully shared with everyone they could about how they’d had The Chosen One on his knees, or bent over a table, sobbing and begging while they fucked him bloody.

_“I could hear the screaming.”_ Harry heard Ollivander’s quiet voice whisper.

Oh, God! This was a nightmare. He was going to have a panic attack right here in front of everyone. Shaking all over and feeling light headed as he started to hyperventilate, Harry pushed back from the table. He excused himself with a mumble and fled to the bathroom where he splashed water on his face to ward off the nausea and get a grip on himself while terrible memories flooded his mind and a chorus of voices started up in his head.

_“Rudolphus told me that he an’ Bella sure did enjoy your company last evenin’ Potter,”_ Macnair told him with a leer. _“Said you was a right whore.”_

_“Delicious,”_ Greyback growled into his ear, licking Harry’s blood from his lips as he rubbed his spent cock against Harry’s thigh.

_“Say you want me, Potter,”_ Bellatrix ordered breathlessly as she rolled her hips against him, but he’d angrily refused. Only it was a lie. He had wanted her, desperately. Harder than he’d ever been and aching for release as he throbbed inside her, Harry had fought against his own traitorous body.

“Noooo!” Harry moaned in misery, fighting the nausea that was rising in his throat while the room spun.

_“I believe we’ve found something you’re a natural at,”_ Snape growled as he pulled Harry by the head, forcing his fat, purple prick down Harry’s throat, threatening to strangle him with it while Lucius and Avery eagerly watched.

_“P_ _erhaps you’ve been sucking him off for years now,_ _”_ Bellatrix speculated while Harry shook his head in denial, still cradling the bloodstained cock which he’d just used to violate Hermione.

Gagging then, Harry lost the battle and vomited into the sink. Heaving until he’d purged himself of his half finished meal while Draco’s disgusting accusations echoed over and over in his head and tears leaked from his tightly squeezed eyes.

_“You let them… you volunteered for it, provoked it even.”_

He had not! The outrage of that memory finally eased Harry’s panic and the frantic longing for the sting of the blade against his skin, replacing it with seething hot anger. He was shaking all over again, but with fury this time. His body was vibrating with unleashed magic, his hands glowing with power as he gripped the sink. Taking several deep breaths, Harry tried to calm down, tried to control the magic before it spiraled out of his control and exploded out of him, terrified of burning down the cottage and all its occupants in a blind rage. 

He couldn’t stop what the Death Eaters had done to him, or silence whoever might be talking about it now. But, by God, he could, and would control his reaction to it! 

Of those who had so brutally sodomized him; Rudolphus, Macnair, Greyback and Rowle, none were left alive to brag of their deeds any longer, he told himself as he talked himself down. He’d personally shut the eyes and mouths forever of every person that participated in it with the exception of Greyback, whose demise Harry owed to Lupin. Only Bellatrix and Snape were left of his sexual torturers, and he’d let them both live; one on purpose and the other by accident. Of those who’d witnessed any of it, only Avery remained as Lucius was also dead now, thanks to Tom. If Harry ever found Avery, he would gladly remove his tongue and eyes as payment for the show he’d so enjoyed watching. As for Draco, having been made to witness his father’s murder was payment enough for what he saw and knew of Harry’s torture. He’d done nothing to harm Harry, nor took any pleasure in what the others had done to him. He was a prick, but he was in no way culpable for what had happened in his home. Harry owed him no retribution besides a punch in the throat if he uttered another infuriating accusation like the one he’d made during their last meeting.

And Luna was just being Luna. Harry was convinced that she could simply see the truth in everyone, no matter how it might be disguised. It was her gift, and she meant no harm by it, or perhaps wasn’t even aware she possessed it. She was simply curious, and if he’d handled her queries as calmly as Ron had, he wouldn’t have made such a spectacle of himself and given anyone any reason to suspect that her deductions were anything more than the crazy theories she always spouted. Hell, the rumor that he and Hermione were dating had been bandied about since his fourth year. Half the Wizarding population still believed they were an item, those who read _Witch Weekly,_ at any rate. It shouldn’t have caused him to break down like he had. Luna had merely stated her belief that he and Hermione were now an item, and it had caused him to lose his dinner and, temporarily, his sanity. Christ, he was completely mental.

Harry stared at his hands, curling and uncurling them as the color returned to normal, his body absorbing the magic back into himself. When he’d finally gotten himself under control and felt like he could withstand the embarrassment of returning to the table after falling apart in front of everyone, Harry splashed more water on his face, rinsed out his mouth and let himself back out of the bathroom. He was relieved to see that neither Ron nor Hermione was standing outside the door waiting for him.

“Everything all right?” Bill asked when Harry returned. 

Harry nodded, but didn’t speak. He must have been gone for a while. The kitchen was nearly empty. 

“I left your plate if you are still ‘ungry,” Fleur told him from the sink.

“No, it’s fine,” Harry mumbled in reply, picking up his plate and carrying it to her. The idea of attempting to finish the meal he’d just heaved up made him feel a bit green again. “I’m not hungry anymore. It was delicious, though,” he added politely. At least it had been going down. 

Fleur took the plate from him, set it in the counter, and then dried her hands with a towel. “You are not well?” she asked, placing her hands on his face and smoothing his hair again as she had the other morning. “You are clammy and pale and still ‘ave fever.”

“He always has fever, Fleur,” Ron explained from the doorway, coming to stand next to Bill, his worried eyes searching Harry’s, Hermione following right behind him. “You’d have to have better healing skills than Madame Pomfrey if you hope to cure him of it. Though Harry might be a much better patient if you were his healer,” he added with a wink.

“Why is zis fever so difficult to remedy?” Fleur asked, her beautiful features undiminished by her perplexed frown.

Harry shrugged.

“If you find out, share it with the healer. It drove her barmy, and she gave him everything she had in her bag at least twice to bring it down to normal. He even got a nice ice-water bath once when it spiked, though I wouldn’t recommend trying that again. I needed healing myself when that was over.”

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry growled, throwing him a warning look, which for some reason, made the crease in Ron’s brow ease and the lines around Hermione’s mouth soften. “I just have a headache, and I’m tired,” Harry explained then to ease Fleur’s concern. “There’s nothing else wrong with me.”

Well, there was plenty wrong with him, but he wasn’t planning to share it with her or anyone else, for that matter. Not if he could help it.

“Zat is from spending all day in ze company of zat goblin,” Fleur replied crossly.

“No doubt,” Harry agreed. “He’s enough to make anyone feel ill, but I’ll be fine. I promise. And the fever is nothing to worry about.”

She stroked his face again before kissing him on each cheek. “Tu as de beaux yeux,” she said, staring into his eyes, to which Harry just stared blankly back.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Hermione translated quietly.

“Oui,” Fleur agreed. “But complète de la douleur… Full of pain,” she translated herself when Hermione didn’t offer to explain this time, her lips having tightened into a frown again. “Even from ze first time I met you at ‘Ogwarts. Only fourteen zen, and a man now, but you always ‘ad eyes of one zat ‘as seen too much.” She dropped her hands from his face then, but continued to stare up at him with concern. “I will always worry for you, mon amour.”

“Well, here’s hoping that he doesn’t turn all your gorgeous hair gray before this is all over,” Bill said, tucking Hermione under his arm and beaming down at her. “We’re going to have to keep you around to translate for these two, luv. Though I could do with a lot less of hearing my wife telling Harry what a beautiful man she thinks he’s become and calling him ‘my love.’ I might get jealous.”

 “I studied a bit before we went on holiday. But my French was never that good, and that was years ago. I’m much better at translating the language than speaking it.”

“N'importe quoi,” Fleur argued. “I will teach you!”

“I’d like that,” Hermione agreed, smiling at Fleur, who beamed back at her.

“And Bill, you just called ‘Ermione love, mon chéri,” Fleur pointed out, striding over to him to give him a peck on the cheek. “So, should I also be jealous?”

Releasing Hermione then, Bill slid his arms around his wife’s waist and nuzzled into her neck.

“Apparently not,” Ron said into the silence. “Bad luck, mate. Guess you’re stuck batting those beautiful eyes at Madame Pomfrey, for now ‘cause it doesn’t looks like Bill’s going to be keen on allowing you to be his wife’s patient for fear you might try and steal her away from him.”

“Right,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Well, I don’t want to be anyone’s patient, to be honest. I’m actually doing my best to avoid another visit from Madame Pomfrey because the ‘bow you’s’, or whatever, don’t help,” he lamented, butchering Fleur’s French. “I think she likes seeing me in pain.”

Ron grinned at him, and Harry gave him a weak smile in return. Hermione cleared her throat, still standing uncomfortably close to the cuddling couple. “Harry, are you ready to head home, or do you want to stay for tea?” she asked.

“If it wouldn’t be rude, I think I’d like to go home.”

“No, of course not. Don’t worry about it,” Bill replied, finally taking his attention off his wife. “Go, get some rest.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Will you be back in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Harry said apologetically. “For many more mornings, I’m afraid.”

“Not a problem. The goblin is a guest as long as you need him to be, and if you’re keeping him entertained during the day, that just means that Fleur and I don’t have to.”

Fleur snorted angrily at that, but did not comment.

“Thanks again. Do you need us to help with anything before we go?”

Bill waived off Harry’s offer to help. “We’ve got plenty of helping hands around here. You three are just occupying precious space. So go on.”

They said goodnight to everyone before returning to Grimmauld Place where the three of them spent a quiet evening. Hermione reviewing and re-writing the notes she’d made while Harry and Ron played a game of chess, neither of them daring to bring up the conversation at supper for which Harry was immeasurably grateful. He was dreading the idea that he would have to face another therapy session with Ron or both of them tag-teaming him when they got home. Worried that they would try and force him to talk about his feelings or explain what had caused his episode at Bill’s. ~~~~

Instead of trying to talk him into Sirius’ room again that night, Ron and Hermione had apparently conspired on a new strategy and simply followed Harry into his when they went to bed. Without a word, Hermione pulled her wand and magically enlarged the bed enough for them all to sleep on it, and then began to undress. Harry and Ron silently followed suit, stripping and crawling onto the bed after her.

It was much more cramped. Hermione slept squashed against the wall with Ron dangling off the outside edge, and Harry ended up in the middle, sleeping wedged between the two of them.

They didn’t offer him sex that night. Maybe because they knew he would finally refuse them. Harry didn’t ask. Relieved to avoid the sexual intimacy, but grateful for the physical and emotional comfort, he curled up between them, cocooned in their embrace. And it was again a night without any nightmares for Harry, but not without disturbing dreams.

He dreamed that they were back in the tent, just him and Hermione. He was already in bed on the bottom bunk, and like the image he’d conjured days before, she’d slipped in next to him totally silent and completely naked. Harry tried to protest, but she put a hand to his mouth to silence him, and then grasped his other hand to slide it over her soft breast. When he didn’t pull away, or begin to argue further, she replaced the hand at his lips with her own, working her tongue into his mouth and her hands into his pajama bottoms.

Kneading her breast in his palm, Harry broke away from her mouth and bent his head to taste her, running his tongue over her puckered nipple and sucking it into his mouth while her searching fingers found his erect cock and squeezed. Shifting underneath him, she spread her legs in invitation and pulled his hand to her center, rubbing against his fingers as she rocked her hips, wetting them with her silky moisture to let him know she was ready for him while she stroked his cock.

Harry pushed two fingers inside her, feeling her firm, slippery inner walls gripping him. She moaned, and Harry wanted more. Impatiently, he pushed down his pajama bottoms and boxers before positioning himself between her thighs. She whispered his name when he entered her, but it was no longer Hermione’s voice. It was Ginny that Hermione had turned into when he’d buried himself inside her. Ginny who was now spread out beneath him, her flame red hair fanned across his pillow. 

Harry let out a little yelp of shock. Feeling both fear and guilt, but even more aroused at the sight of her, excitement surging through him to be doing this with her. His hips jerked forward automatically, slamming himself into her to the hilt, and she let out a gasp of pleasure and surprise, encircling his waist with her long legs.

“Oh, God! Don’t stop, Harry,” she begged, running her hands up his back, her nails scratching against his skin as she pressed him into her with her heels.

Jesus, he wanted to keep going, more than anything! He desperately wanted to hear her gasp, to make her moan like that again, but he was afraid. Afraid that if he continued, she’d stop being Ginny and turn again into someone else, her beautiful red hair turning black and curly, those nails piercing his skin, and her breathless moans turning to mad laughter. Harry’s heart started to pound in fear, and then with a start, he woke up.

He was lying on his side facing a sleeping Hermione, his hands gripping his pillow, but his hips were still thrusting forward, his cock gliding through someone’s grip, and when he pulled back, someone else’s hard cock pressed into the cleft of his arse. Harry let out a whimper of fear before he realized that it was Ron. Ron who was behind him, whose cock was burrowed into the valley between his cheeks and whose hand was stroking Harry’s straining erection.

“Shhh,” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear before pulling his earlobe between his teeth. “It’s only me.”

Once he understood that Ron wasn’t actually trying to penetrate him, at least not yet, Harry’s fear eased, and he released his grip on the pillow. His heart still pounding, Harry tried to relax his stiff body while Ron continued to work him, trying to banish the image of Ginny still filling his brain because he didn’t want her here. He couldn’t think of her as her brother was jerking him off while humping his backside. And he didn’t want to turn over and do this face to face with Ron either because he felt guilty after dreaming of fucking Hermione back in the tent once Ron had gone and then of fucking Ginny. It was too much for him to bring to bear on the lover he was actually with and possibly the cause of the dream in the first place.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like what he and Ron did together normally, or how Ron made him feel. He just needed this to be more anonymous tonight. He wanted to forget who Ron was, forget who he was and have a quick, affectionless wank.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reached around and tried to grip Ron’s cock to help him to his own end, but he really couldn’t maneuver his wrist at the odd angle. So instead, he laid his hand flat, pressing against Ron’s cock to provide more friction as Ron slid through his arse cheeks, slick with his pre-cum. Ron latched onto Harry’s neck, moaning his approval and pumped Harry harder with his hand, which was good because Harry was close to orgasm, and he wanted this one to come quickly, for both of them. 

The next morning, Harry was fairly silent at breakfast which hadn’t gone unnoticed by Hermione. She kept trying to pull him into a conversation, but Harry really just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. Hermione was nothing if not persistent, however, and she cornered him in the foyer when he went to get his jacket.

“Harry? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

He couldn’t tell her he’d had a sex dream about the two of them alone together before she turned into Ginny while her boyfriend had been fisting his cock. Or about how horrible the resulting orgasm had made him feel afterwards as Ron came against Harry’s back, grunting into his ear and biting down on his neck to stifle the noise while Harry had secretly held his breath and came with the thrill of fear that the feel of Ron’s teeth had inspired. 

It was the first time that he’d truly felt ashamed of himself and what they were doing as Ron cleaned them both up with his wand. There was no light, teasing banter afterwards, just Ron snuggling back against him and stroking his arm until he fell back to sleep again while Harry lay awake in the darkness, horrified at what he’d needed from Ron to be able to get off. He’d used Ron to punish himself, making him an unwitting accomplice in his bid to atone for his misdeeds, to push thoughts of Ginny naked beneath him as far away from himself as he could.

“Did you have a nightmare?” she asked worriedly.

_Yes_ , he said to himself. _The worst kind_. _The kind where you’re awake through the whole thing._

“No. We were just all packed so tightly together that I didn’t rest well. I’m tired, is all, and not looking forward to having to spend another day trying to concentrate on memorizing the vast labyrinth of Gringotts and all its nasty surprises.”

“Do you want to rest here for a while and maybe come later?”

“No. No offense, Hermione, but I don’t think that you alone will be able to keep Ron and Griphook from coming to blows if I’m not there.”

“True,” she agreed. “We could make Ron stay here. That ought to take some of the burden off,” she added, smiling. “He could do some of the laundry, or something.”

Harry snorted. “Hmmm. Something tells me that trying to talk him into that would be harder than just going to Bill’s and getting this over with.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” she asked. “Harry, you’ll tell me if there’s something wrong, won’t you? I know that the talk at dinner yesterday upset you.”

Wisely, she had not said Ginny’s name or articulated her knowledge of his fears, either of Bill’s announcement of his plans to install Dean at Muriel’s with Ginny or of Luna’s astute observations on the nature of their relationship. But she knew at least some of what troubled him. She also knew him well enough to know what his likely response would be, too, and was trying to counter it.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. Hoping to try and ward off the intervention he could feel coming before she summoned a vial of holy water and enlisted Ron’s help to hold him down once the casting out of demons began.

Hermione was no fool, however. Yesterday had marked a turning point in their relationship, and she’d sensed it. She knew that he was trying to pull away from them again, no matter how much he denied it, and she didn’t like it. If he could, though, he would, as much as possible to protect them and himself, though he resolved to appear as normal as he could outwardly to quell her suspicions or she would sink her claws in and not let go until he confessed everything.

They spent another unpleasant day with Griphook, where Harry suffered another mental blow. The goblin had informed him that they couldn’t impersonate Draco and use his wand in lieu of a key when he’d revealed their plan to use the dose of Polyjuice potion and the hairs they’d acquired. Quickly dashing Harry’s hopes, he told him that Draco would not be able to get into Bellatrix’s vault. That left Harry with the terrifying prospect of coming face to face with the embodiment of his despised tormentor again. 

The idea of seeing Hermione, his lover and friend, cloaked in the body of his rapist was a cruel abomination so horrible, that it was almost more than Harry’s fragile mind could contemplate. Yet she was really the only one for the job. Neither he nor Ron would be able to pull that off. But what if it tainted Hermione and fused them together in his mind forever? What if he lost his head when he saw her and couldn’t keep it straight that she was really Hermione and attacked her before anyone could stop him?

Harry returned that night to Grimmauld Place with a headache again, feeling aggressive and frustrated. Sensing it, or simply frustrated himself, Ron evidently decided not to wait until they went to bed to let off some steam. Pinning Harry to the wall when they entered the drawing room, Ron gripped Harry’s hips and rubbed his erection against him while licking his way into Harry’s mouth.

Harry was caught off guard, but it only took him a second to respond by sliding his hands down over Ron’s arse and squeezing to encourage Ron to grind against him. It culminated with Harry on his knees again, blowing Ron before things moved to the couch where Hermione sat watching and waiting.

Inadvertently, Ron’s randiness that evening had given Harry the opportunity he needed to break from their sleeping arrangements. Without the lure of sex, Harry could insist on sleeping alone. So he suggested that they all move back to their own rooms and left them alone together for the night. They didn’t let him go without a fight, of course, and it had been brutal, but it was a sacrifice he had to make. He’d been forced to lie as convincingly as possible and say he was exhausted, telling them that the headaches were a result of a lack of sleep from being squashed together with them every night.

No, he wasn’t trying to end things between them, he’d argued. Didn’t the fact that they’d all just finished fucking on the couch prove that? He just needed sleep, he told them. Uninterrupted sleep. But he didn’t get any.

Without them, without the shelter of their bodies to hold them at bay, his nightmares finally came back. He dreamt that night of their attempt on the bank. The Alley was filled with Death Eaters awaiting their arrival when the Apparated in front of Ollivander’s old wand shop, and they were immediately set upon.

Harry awoke in a panic, sweating and panting as he frantically tried to free his body from the blankets wrapped around him like so many arms trying to hold him down while terrifying images of Ron and Hermione fighting against the tide of hooded figures overtaking them swam in his head. His hands tingled with magic while his heart raced, and he sat up, trembling all over. He couldn’t go back to sleep after that and spend the rest of the night sitting with his knees pulled against his chest, waiting for the sunrise.

It was just withdrawal, he told himself, struggling to hold his resolve and not flee back to them. It was natural. He would adjust. It was just going to take some time for him to get his footing again before he stabilized, he reasoned, but he feared it was a lie. 

As the days wore on and the nightmares increased, Harry felt himself backsliding. The three of them were still fucking at every opportunity, but it wasn’t the same. Harry tried to make it so, to appear as if nothing were wrong, to make himself as accessible and available to them whenever they wanted, but both Ron and Hermione were becoming frustrated with him. And things with Griphook weren’t going at all well either. 

Every step forward in their strategy meant two steps back. Harry’s hopes to formulate and implement a plan to acquire and destroy that Horcrux quickly were fading day by day. This mission was by far more dangerous than their break in at the Ministry. Harry was becoming more and more fearful for their safety with the introduction of every new obstacle Griphook revealed that they then had to work out how to overcome. They’d gotten by so far, mostly on luck, and he knew his was running out. It made him anxious and moody.

Ron, too, seemed to be more aggressive than usual. He did his best to keep his word and hold his tongue in front of Griphook, but the goblin seemed to know that Ron despised him and took every opportunity to provoke the temperamental redhead. Harry was surprised, actually, that he hadn’t already been forced to pull them apart. Griphook, in fact, seemed to be making it his mission to aggravate everyone at the cottage. Fleur, in particular, and she finally blew up one evening and refused to continue delivering his meals to him.

“You can join ze rest of us, or you can go ‘ungry!” She’d angrily announced before storming back out the room when she’d come to call them to dinner.

Harry, Hermione, Bill and even Dean did their best to mediate, acting as a buffer between the goblin and those in the house that he was trying to infuriate, but Harry knew it was only a matter of time before Ron finally lost it and attacked, possibly joined by the formidable part-Veela. So Harry began allowing Ron to take his pent up frustration with the goblin out on him at night instead. Frankly, he didn’t mind much. His own impotent aggression and anxiety needed an outlet, too. Besides, he also found it sexually exciting, which was something else to add to the list of things he’d learned about himself that he really wished he hadn’t. 

Hermione found this new aggression between them alarming, however. Especially when she’d returned from the loo the first time it had happened and found Harry flat on his back on the drawing room floor, struggling with Ron who was sitting on top of him. Ron had pushed him off the couch after Harry had tired of the goblin bashing and told Ron sharply to give it a rest for a while. Fighting to free his arms which Ron had pinned over his head, Harry grunted in frustration while Ron used his weight to hold him down.

“Get off me,” Harry growled, trying to leverage his body up with his feet to unseat Ron.

“Make me,” Ron replied threateningly as Hermione came back into the room.

“Ron! What are you doing? Get off him!” she shouted, pulling her wand and hurrying forward.

The distraction had given Harry the opening he needed. With a huge effort, he bucked Ron off him. Quickly reversing their positions, he smashed Ron’s face into the carpet and roared in triumph as Hermione alternated pointing her wand at each of them, uncertain whom she should stun.

“I told you I could have his face in the dirt, Hermione!” he crowed.

His victory over Ron was short lived, however, and in a few moments his own arm was wrenched behind him, and he was on his knees, bent over and staring down at Hermione’s feet with Ron behind him.

“Stop it!” Hermione shrieked.

“I’m not hurting him, Hermione,” Ron insisted. Then he turned his attention back to Harry. “And you’re a dirty sneak bastard,” he accused, panting with the effort of trying to keep his grip on Harry. “That wasn’t fair… I was distracted.”

“Anything’s fair if your opponent has two stones on you. And… uhh… besides,” he added, still struggling to get out of Ron’s hold, “you set on me without warning, too. How is that fair?”

Ron flipped Harry onto his back and quickly straddled him again, but across his chest this time, pinning his arms down again with his knees.

“You deserved it for that cheek. Now try getting me off this time,” Ron challenged, still breathing hard and red faced from the effort, but smiling in satisfaction.

“I would… try getting you off… but you’re not close enough to reach with my mouth, and you’re pinning my arms down, too.” Lifting his head, Harry stuck out his tongue, trying to lick Ron while wiggling his fingers to demonstrate his helplessness.

Ron snorted with laughter before reaching around him to cup Harry’s stiff cock through his jeans.

The idea of being pinned like this and having his bits groped should have terrified him, but it didn’t. No matter what his current position, he didn’t feel threatened by Ron in the slightest, and he’d been the one who actually started the sexual innuendo in the first place. 

“Stop… molesting… me!” he shouted, kicking his legs fruitlessly.

“Say you give up first.”

“No!”

Ron raised his eyebrows and slid the zipper down on Harry’s fly while Harry twisted his hips to try and thwart him. “No?” Ron mocked, moving his hands to his own fly. “Then how about this?” he asked, sliding his own zipper down. 

Harry’s heart started pounding then with the slight tingling of fear, but also arousal. “No, and you suck!”

“You’re going to start sucking if you don’t give up,” Ron countered, reaching into his pants, but he didn’t go further.

“Ron! That’s not funny. Let him up,” Hermione urged him, worry creeping back into her voice, but Harry knew he was bluffing.

“Yeah, let me up. My arms are going numb,” he pleaded.

“Say you give.”

“Aaarrrggh… this is so emasculating! Get off me,” he growled.

“Make me,” Ron taunted again, chuckling.

“I can’t! You weigh more than a Hippogriff.”

“Please, you’re not so helpless. Use your magic to knock me off if you aren’t strong enough.”

“I can’t,” Harry argued. “I don’t know how.”

“Ron, let him up,” Hermione said warningly.

“Bullshit! You have control of it. It just scares you, and you’re afraid to try,” Ron accused, ignoring Hermione’s command.

Harry shook his head in denial, suddenly uneasy. “No, I can’t do it, Ron.”

“Well, if you’re not giving up, and I’m not letting you up until you try, I guess you’re fucked. If you won’t use your magic, then you can spend the rest of the night right here like this, sucking my cock. But if you do try, I’ll suck yours.”

Harry glared up at him. “It’s not that easy, Ron. It could be dangerous. I can’t control it like that.”

“Another lie. I’ve seen you do enough of it now to know that you know exactly how to use just enough of that power to get the result you want. Just try. I don’t believe that you’d ever hurt me or Hermione with your magic.”

“Ron, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hermione interjected holding her hand out to Ron. 

Ron looked up at her, but before he could argue, Harry had sucked in a breath. Closing his eyes, he concentrated hard and felt his body vibrate under Ron.

Ron was right. Harry could feel it gathering in him from the slight sense of fear coupled with his excitement and stubborn determination to win. He felt the heat of it in his hands and in the tingling of his body.

“Woah!” Ron yelped in astonishment staring back down at Harry in alarm. “All right! Wait… wait! That stings a bit—”

Then, with a shriek from Hermione, Ron was upended, rolling backwards down Harry’s legs like a bowling ball through the return chute.

“Oh, my!” Hermione gasped when Ron’s momentum was finally stopped by the chair leg.

“You owe me a blow job,” Harry announced, sitting up on his elbows and smirking at Ron who was sprawled on the floor, rubbing the back of his head.

“You tricked me! You knew all along you could do it, you bastard. You’ve been practicing, haven’t you? And you made me bite my tongue,” Ron said in outrage as he sat up.

“I didn’t know, and the tingling shock was an accident. It took me a second to focus it properly. You’re lucky I figured it out, actually. Otherwise we’d likely be putting out the fire of your charred remains right about now.”

“That was bloody amazing!” Ron announced, giving Harry a huge grin and bounding to his feet before yanking Harry off the floor by his arm and gripping him in a bear hug hard enough to crush bone.

“For fuck’s sake, Ron!” Harry grunted in pain. “Hermione already knows you’re bigger and stronger than me. I’m sorry I said I was prettier than you the other night. Stop trying to break me all right? Those ribs are still delicate.”

“You’re doing that again later,” Ron announced excitedly, kissing Harry hard on the mouth before finally releasing him. “Once my head stops throbbing.”

“Ohhhh,” Harry said in mock delight, rubbing his bruised ribs. “What will I get for doing the neat magic trick next time, Ron? A hernia?”

What he got was his head trapped under Ron’s arm in a headlock, but that was easy enough to get out of. Harry had spent too many years fighting off Dudley’s attempt to stick his head in the toilet not to be an expert at extricating himself from that particular hold.

Minutes later Harry was back on the couch with his hair standing on end. He attempted to flatten it back down while Ron tugged on his trousers, trying to pull them down his legs to begin giving Harry his reward.

“Hermione?” he grunted, slapping Ron’s hands away. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Would you mind giving me a haircut?”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise from the other end of the couch. “I suppose I can do that. If you don’t mind the hatchet job it’s likely to be.”

“Really? Right now?” Ron complained as Harry fought him off, sitting back up and attempting to do up his fly. “It can’t wait?”

“Nope,” Harry replied. “It can’t wait.”

He stood up, yanking his shirt over his head and dropping it next to Ron before straddling his thighs. Gripping a fistful of ginger locks, he leaned down to kiss those pouting lips as Ron pulled him by the hips to grind against him. 

“But you can.”

~ . ~

 


	38. The Blame Game

Harry made to crawl off Ron’s lap after snogging him senseless, but Ron wasn’t having it. He’d been waiting all day to finally touch him like this, and he’d already wasted enough time tonight because of how irritable the goblin had made him today. His aggressive play with Harry earlier had him hard and ready now though, only Harry wanted to make him wait even longer, for a haircut of all things.

Harry’s acceptance of their new relationship had totally released whatever inhibitions Ron may have had. At every opportunity, he had Harry or Hermione pressed against the wall or pulled across his lap. They were completely different in almost every way, but they both had the power to excite him to no end, making him want to map the differences between their bodies, to taste every inch of their flesh with his tongue until blindfolded, he could tell which was which with a single taste. He craved them constantly, like a drug to which he was hopelessly addicted. His libido was unquenchable it seemed. Yet still, he was frustrated, which had the effect of making him even more aggressive.

Luna’s words had changed things between them. It was subtle, but it was there, a loss of intimacy that Ron desperately wanted to regain. Despite the fact that Harry still willingly gave himself to them almost anytime they asked, it was only his body now. He was holding the rest of himself back. Ron kept trying to break through to him again in the only way he knew how because he felt like he was somehow to blame, though he really had no idea what he’d done. He could pinpoint it to that evening at Bill’s, though, and later when they’d returned to Grimmauld Place. Startling Harry, he’d woken him with the stoking of his hand, and they’d both climaxed, but something was off. Something had shifted in their relationship that night. By the next morning, Harry had become slightly distant. It was the last time that they’d shared a bed together, and Ron was sure his actions had something to do with it, whatever Harry said to the contrary.

He wasn’t taking all the credit, however. Part of it belonged to Luna, too. Her observations, and Harry’s reaction to it, had caused him to reinstate the strict ‘no touching’ rule when they were away from this house again. Harry shied away from even the most innocent contact now in public, as if a simple touch on the arm might strip him bare and telegraph the intimate details of what they did privately to the entire room. Lovers by night they may be, but he wanted there to be no doubt in anyone’s mind that they were strictly friends by day. Ron could live with that if he could only have Harry back in their bed. Hermione needed Harry there, he did, too. He missed him desperately, yet Harry still refused.

Gripping Harry’s waist harder to prevent his escape, Ron thrust his hips up into Harry which caused him to lose his balance slightly.

“I want to dip you both in chocolate tonight and lick you clean,” he whispered, picturing the image in his mind.

“Jesus, Ron! You’re the horniest person I’ve ever met,” Harry complained, grasping Ron’s shoulders to steady himself. “And that’s saying something since I once spent an entire night, against my will, being fucked raw by a sadistic bitch of a nymphomaniac.”

“Harry!” Hermione squeaked, utterly appalled.

“What? It’s true.”

“Stop telling me things like that!” Ron shouted in horror at the fresh images flooding his mind at Harry’s words. “And it’s not just that I’m horny. I mean I am, but it’s just because I don’t want to waste anymore time. I’m not willing to turn away an opportunity with you.”

“I see. So you want to hurry up and fuck me before I die,” Harry replied sarcastically.

Apparently, Harry had rendered Hermione temporarily speechless with that callous remark. Instead she kicked him hard in the thigh to express her outrage.

“Ow!”

“You’re not going to die!” Ron growled as Harry rubbed the spot on his thigh which Hermione had probably bruised with that vicious kick. “Not if I can help it.” Leaning into Harry’s neck then, Ron tugged his earlobe between his teeth before he completely lost his window of opportunity to persuade Harry. “And I only want to fuck you when you ask me to fuck you,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “When my mouth isn’t good enough anymore and you’re begging for something more.”

Hermione moaned softly as Harry shivered, making Ron think that he had at least one of them convinced, maybe both with that lecherous comment. Smiling with satisfaction, he traced the shell of Harry’s ear with his tongue and followed it with his hot breath.

Harry tried twice to speak before the words finally came. “And if I never ask?” he questioned hoarsely as Ron slid his hands around to Harry’s bare back to wedge them into his jeans.

“That’s okay, too. I’ve told you. Whatever you want to do, and nothing more,” he replied, pulling Harry into him again by the grip he now had on his arse to rub against him. “Just letting you know the offer stands,” he added seductively as he leaned down and circled Harry’s nipple with his tongue, which immediately hardened.

Gasping, Harry gripped him harder, his hips bucking in response. Christ, Ron loved seeing his reactions! Harry’s entire body was crazy sensitive, and his already elevated temperature rose even higher when he was aroused, making him hot to the touch. This fascinated Ron endlessly, but also concerned him slightly, afraid that if Harry got too excited, his temperature might skyrocket dangerously high, sending him into convulsions again which was not at all the type of spasms Ron hoped to induce in his lover’s body.

Imagining that body flushed red with burning arousal, contorting in ecstasy from the orgasm Ron intended to give him tonight, he looked up into Harry’s face. He was nearly noiseless, as he usually was with Ron, but his mouth was open, his breath hitching, and his fist clenching a handful of Ron’s shirt as Ron ground himself against him. Harry’s struggle for silence was even more erotic to Ron than if he were moaning wantonly.

It appeared to be some sort of game of control between them that Harry had stared. Privately, Harry let him and Hermione do pretty much whatever they wanted with him, completely submitting to them, but it seemed important to him to maintain control over himself. Ron didn’t know if it was fear that motivated him, fear of losing that control, or a learned mechanism from his time in the dungeon. But he focused his whole being on it during their time together now, which drove Ron mad with lust. And it was developing into a highly competitive contest between them for Ron to try and force Harry to break his resolve, to cry out, curse, or beg, something because Ron knew Harry was certainly capable of it. He’d heard him use that voice plenty enough times when he was balls deep in Hermione.

Harry was never a screamer, or anything. He just wasn’t as stingy with his reactions when it was Hermione. Maybe he couldn’t help it, but with her, Harry allowed her to hear his pleasure. He couldn’t deny her the satisfaction of knowing that she could make him moan or whimper pleadingly with that hoarse voice of his. It should have irritated Ron, or made him jealous, but it didn’t. Ron knew exactly what it felt like to be inside her. Harry would have to be rendered totally mute again to remain silent while Hermione rode his cock.

“Let’s get the rest of these clothes out of the way then, shall we?” he breathed flicking his tongue once over the pebbled nipple. If he bit down around that nub of flesh right now, he knew that Harry would be his in an instant. Checkmate, game over. “I believe you’ve won the services of my mouth tonight, and I’d like to see if I can make you beg first,” he continued. “You can get that haircut afterwards.”

“No,” Harry argued breathlessly. He pulled back again before Ron had the chance to make his winning move. He had a look of stubborn determination on his face as Ron frowned at him. “Right now. We both know that if any more of my clothes come off, that will be the end of whatever other plans I have for the night.”

“So? That’s not so bad, is it? Are you meeting someone tomorrow that your hair can’t wait one more night?”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled. “I’ve got a date with a couple of Fleur’s Veela cousins. They’re meeting me for dinner, and I want to look my best. Now get your hands off my arse and let me up.”

“Hmm,” Ron said, looking Harry over critically. “If they’re the same cousins from the wedding, you’re going to need all the help you can get, runt.”

“Nice,” Harry replied, trying to look affronted, but he started laughing instead as Ron reluctantly pulled his hands out of his pants and allowed Harry to climb off his lap at last.

“Go on then. I give up.”

Harry stood up, tugging at his jeans and readjusting himself a bit to keep the constricting material from continuing to bite into his crotch. Then he hurriedly snatched Draco’s wand off the coffee table in case Ron changed his mind and tried to pull him back down again. If he did, Ron had the feeling that Harry wouldn’t be able to refuse him a third time.

“Why didn’t you try conjuring it without your wand?” Ron asked Harry as a heavy, three-legged stool revolved in midair for a moment before dropping with a thud onto the worn carpet. It looked like the stool used at Hogwarts for the sorting, only it was larger and sturdier. As Harry was no longer a scrawny eleven-year-old boy, he needed something a bit larger to support his weight, even as skinny as he still was.

Perching himself on it, Harry turned to Ron, a look of incredulity on his face. “Contrary to what you obviously believe, Ron, I don’t have that kind of control over my magic. The best I can do without a wand are a few rudimentary spells at best. Simple summoning charms or Impediment jinxes… besides, you know… the flames and electrical shocks. ”

“And the powerful shield charms,” Ron added. “Don’t forget those.”

“Okay, fine… and shield charms,” Harry amended, sounding slightly irritated to be back on the subject of his wandless magic as he slid the thin strip of wood into his back pocket for safekeeping. “But still, I don’t think that I’ll be abandoning my wand anytime soon. I can hardly control it well enough to do complicated magic or anything. It’s more like blasts of energy, and it drains the life out of me besides.”

“Madame Pomfrey said it was a great deal harder to concentrate your magic without the aid of a wand,” Hermione reminded them, now rummaging in her beaded bag before finally coming up with a fine toothed comb. “It’s much more taxing on the body.”

“Well, I still think you should keep practicing with it,” Ron said.

“I haven’t been practicing with it,” Harry insisted. “Tonight was the first time I’d actually tried to make it happen. And I have to be angry or scared or something like that before it will come.”

“Were you scared earlier?” Ron asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice, suddenly second guessing Harry’s desire to put the brakes on tonight. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No, Ron. I wasn’t scared. Not really, but there was enough of a twinge, apparently, for me to be able to use to summon it up. Still, I don’t like it. It freaks me out, okay? It leaves me feeling shaky and out of control. I don’t want to do it for your amusement. I don’t want to do it at all.”

“Okay. I’ll drop it. But Lupin said it was a good thing to have in your arsenal, and I agree with him. I don’t plan to trot you out as the entertainment at parties or anything—”

“You already have. I seem to remember putting on quite a show for your family on your birthday.”

Ron frowned. He wasn’t expecting this to turn into a row. “You know how sorry I am about that. We both are. I don’t know how many more times you want me to say it. We fucked up,” he admitted.

“Yeah, you weren’t so keen for me to let loose my magic then, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t, but look, Harry. That’s exactly what I mean. When Snape’s Patronus appeared, you and I both know you were about to lose it. You were shaking all over, and I swear to god, your eyes had started to glow. I panicked. I’ll admit that, but you would have, too, if you’d seen the look on your face. You looked just like you did in the dungeon before you burned everything to ash. I was terrified, all right? You can’t blame me for losing my head a bit.”

“I realized where I was,” Harry said quietly. “I knew who was there with me, and I was getting it back under control.”

“We couldn’t take that chance, Harry,” Hermione admitted, though, like him, she sounded remorseful, hoping to diffuse this before he let loose a furious diatribe and started swinging at them again.

“I got control of it at Bill’s the other day, too,” Harry added even more quietly, as if he hadn’t heard her.

Hermione’s mouth opened, but then she closed it again, apparently thinking better of probing him for more information right now. Ron’s eyebrows had risen in surprise at the admission of how bad the episode at Bill’s had been. Like Hermione, he was too stunned to form words for a moment.

Harry had certainly looked ill when he’d returned from the loo that night, but not nearly as wretched as he’d looked going in. It had taken all of Ron’s self control to hold himself in his seat and not go after Harry when he’d fled the dinner table after Luna made that idiotic comment and sent Harry into a tailspin, especially when he saw where he was headed. Horrible thoughts and images had filled Ron’s brain at what Harry might be up to in there, but he didn’t rise. He knew that Harry would not thank him for his concern. In fact, it might have made it worse. Damn, it had been hard, though. He was in there a long time!

_He’s fine. He won’t hurt himself_ , Ron had chanted to himself over and over while his ears strained for the sound of Harry’s return. Even still, he’d never felt so relieved when he heard Harry’s feet on the stairs finally. Ron had looked Harry over carefully that night when he’d stripped and crawled into bed, searching for evidence of any freshly healed marks on his pale skin. He’d examined every inch of Harry’s body every night since then, too, but hadn’t found anything. The changes in their relationship had made it much more difficult for Harry to hide it if he were still cutting himself. Nevertheless, Ron still found himself checking constantly. He knew the sex was giving Harry some of the release he’d needed, and the moon had finally waned, too, yet Harry was back in his own bed at night now and out from under Ron’s watchful gaze where he could no longer monitor him so closely. Ron hated every minute of it.

“Good,” Ron blurted, finally. “Good. That’s all I want, Harry. I just want you to be able to control it and use it in emergencies because fuck knows we seem to find ourselves in tight spots plenty enough times. We’ve all had our wands confiscated. Yours and now my wand are both broken, too. It’s good we have replacements, but without you being able to do what you did, we’d all be dead right now. Oh, and add Apparition to the list of things you can do wandlessly. You forgot that one.”

Harry rolled his eyes before turning his head to glance inquiringly back at Hermione. She immediately rose to her feet.

“That’s right,” she added, strolling around the coffee table, a pair of shears in one hand that she’d just conjured and the comb in the other. “Apparition, or something like it… maybe more.” Stepping up behind Harry, she set the tools down and ran her fingers through his long messy locks. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” she asked nervously.

Harry nodded and then tilted his head to look up at her. “What do you mean, maybe more?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, looking thoughtful while still carding her hands through his hair. “Just something more than Apparition, I mean. When you pulled us out of the dungeons, it didn’t feel like that, and Ron and I both thought we saw some sort of transformation when you fled again.”

“Some sort of transformation?” Harry asked incredulously. “You mean like I turned into a dog, or something… like Sirius?”

“No, not a dog, but it was so fast, and you were surrounded by flames again so that neither of us could really tell what exactly had happened.”

“You think I’m an Animagus? Without knowing it?” Harry scoffed in disbelief. “You’re both mad. How could I be? It took my dad and Sirius years to learn. I don’t even know how.”

“Beats me, mate,” Ron replied. “It’s just what we saw.”

“You’re barking!” Harry exclaimed. “You were just both in shock, is all.”

“Maybe we were, but we both saw the same thing. I won’t deny that we were a bit traumatized at the time and may not have been seeing things too clearly, but still. You changed into something. I’m sure of it.”

Harry sat there open mouthed, glancing back and forth between the pair of them as if they were having him on, and he was trying to catch one of them winking at the other and giving the game away. When they didn’t, he finally snapped his mouth shut and, without another word, faced forward, his hands curling in his lap and his brow furrowing while Hermione began combing out his hair.

Removing his glasses, Hermione hooked them on her blouse where the first button was undone so that they rested safely between her breasts. Then with a pained expression on her face as her lips twisted in concentration, she pulled up the first lock of hair, trapping it with her fingers, and placed the comb between her teeth. Resting the open scissors against her fingers as a guide, she slowly squeezed, making the first cut.

Harry didn’t speak again the entire time she worked. Neither did Ron or Hermione. There was only the crisp sound of the scissors as they sheared away several inches of black hair which sprinkled down onto Harry’s bare shoulders and the carpet around him, and the soft ticking of the clock marking off the time, and the creaking of the stool as Harry shifted when Hermione tilted is head down and moved behind him while she worked. Leaning down to him, she blew softly against his neck and out along his shoulders before sweeping the remaining strands to the floor to examine her work. Harry’s back pebbled with goose pimples at the feel of her breath and fingertips on him. Then he shivered slightly, the goose pimples intensifying when she placed the cold shears against his neck to straighten his hairline.

Ron raised his eyebrows, his interest peaked. Still a little put out that Harry had thrown off his advances for a haircut, he’d been feeling slightly bored and frustrated while watching them at first. But Harry’s reaction had driven those sullen feelings from him. He sat up straighter. This haircut had suddenly turned from some mundane chore into something slightly erotic, something more like a slow seduction of his best mate by his best girl. Hermione’s methods were much more subtle than his, but no less effective, Ron realized.

Hermione had moved around to Harry’s front, straddling one of his thighs as she tilted his head to the side and bent down to him to work around his left ear. Harry’s hands tightened in his lap, and his jaw clenched when she blew again softly against his ear to remove the hair she’d just severed. Closing his eyes, Harry took a deep breath, but held perfectly still for her while she stroked the shell of his ear with her thumb, the one Ron had so recently tracked with his tongue. Harry kept his eyes closed when she’d finished and tilted his head the other direction to repeat the process around his other ear.

When she’d moved to wedge herself between his thighs, Harry spread his legs farther apart to accommodate her, causing him to scoot closer to her on the stool so that he was perched on the edge. There was barely an inch between them now, a fact which Harry seemed well aware of judging by the way his stomach tightened and his nostrils flared. She pulled his chin up, and he finally opened his eyes again slowly. Ron saw that they were nearly black, his pupils exploded wide with undisguised desire as he looked up at her.

Manipulating his head with her hand to get Harry in the position she wanted to be able to try again to tame the unruly hair on his crown, which never seemed to want to lie down, Hermione leaned into him so that he was staring down the front of her shirt. The goose bumps were gone now, replaced with the rosy pink flush of arousal that signaled his temperature rising. Harry’s previously curled hands were now gripping his thighs as he stared at her breasts right under his nose. Her raised arms caused her perfect tits to press together and swell against the cups of her bra as she worked. The weight of Harry’s glasses pulled down on the fabric of her shirt, giving Harry an eyeful of her cleavage which, Ron knew, even with his severe myopia was close enough for him to see every pore of that honey colored skin with perfect clarity.

Wasn’t he a lucky bastard? Ron had suddenly never wanted a haircut more in his life.

Harry looked as if he were fighting the urge to lean forward and press his nose between those soft mounds of flesh or run his tongue along the crevice. Ron was sure he was also struggling to resist the desire to release the grip he had on his thighs to slide his hands over her bum and pull her into him so that he could rub the erection that was visibly bulging beneath the fly of his jeans against her. Ron would have, at any rate, as he was sporting a matching one, but he was less shy about trying to relieve it. Stroking his thumb over his own aching, jeans clad cock, Ron watched as Hermione tilted Harry’s head back slightly to work on his long fringe.

Harry stared silently up at her while she smoothed his hair. Their eyes met and she leaned in closer to him. His tongue immediately darted out to lick his dry lips. Then his mouth opened slightly while his eyes fluttered closed in anticipation. His back straightened, and his neck arched as he rose to accept her lips against his. His pulse was pounding in the vein at his neck, and Harry’s hands curled tightly again as he waited for the kiss that didn’t come.

Ron watched the apple bob in his throat as Harry swallowed the slight disappointment. Peeling his eyes open and relaxing his neck again, Harry blew out the breath he was holding. Then his lips twitched in the slightest of smirks before he bit down on them to hide his reaction to her deliberate tease.

While he’d been straining to be polite and keep his head and not hump her leg, Hermione had been intentionally trying to work him up. Harry knew her for the vixen she was now, though, and his cheeks flushed slightly at the realization.

The boy was still a bit naïve sometimes, Ron thought. But he fervently hoped Harry never lost it. It was fucking adorable. The daft ponce!

Ron’s whole body was throbbing with desire for both of them by the time Hermione had finally finished with Harry’s fringe. Placing both hands on Harry’s jaw, her thumbs on his cheeks, she tilted his head back one final time. Harry’s eyes had been closed as she trimmed his bangs, and they remained so as she blew across them. She stroked away stubborn hairs from his eyebrows with her thumbs and down alongside his nose before she release him. Still, Harry didn’t open his eyes.

Hermione pulled his glasses from her shirt and slid them back onto his face. Running her hand through his hair again, she held it in her fist to tilt his head back further as she leaned down to him. Then she licked the seam of his lips with the tip of her pink tongue. Clutching the stool, Harry’s mouth immediately parted, and a moan of pent up longing escaped him before she captured it with her own mouth.

Ron almost came in his trousers. Harry finally getting his reward for being such a good boy was just about the hottest thing he’d ever seen. And he’d seen a lot of smoking hot things recently! Hell, the three of them were all still clothed, and it was just a kiss, but it was the most eagerly anticipated kiss he’d ever witnessed. He was definitely going to ask for his own haircut later, he decided as he watched them pull apart.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, panting slightly as he stared up at her with those hugely dilated eyes.

“It was my pleasure,” Hermione responded. “But you might not be thanking me once you’ve seen it.”

Harry ran a hand up the back of his head.  “I’m sure it’s fine. And even if it’s not, I’ve had worse, I assure you. I’ll wear a ball cap ‘til it grows back if it’s too awful.”

“It’s not that bad! But you have a double crown, which makes it difficult to get the hair to lie down,” she lamented. “I did my best with it.”

Harry stood up, standing very near Hermione so she had to tilt her head nearly all the way back to look up at him. Bending slightly towards her, Harry pulled the shears and comb from her fingers. Her hand came up automatically to his grip his shoulder as if she thought he might sweep her into his arms and carry her off to his bed. 

“I don’t care what it looks like. I’m never letting anyone else besides you cut my hair ever again,” he whispered less than an inch from her mouth before pulling back.

The smirk was back on his face when she realized he was returning the teasing gesture and did not intend to kiss her again or pick her up and toss her on the couch as she’d clearly hoped.

“I need a shower now,” he announced as he set the scissors and comb on the stool and pulled his wand from his back pocket. Then he waved it once to vanish the hair on the floor before stepping around Hermione who looked as stunned and disappointed as Ron had earlier by Harry’s dismissal.

“Wait,” Ron growled irritably. “We were in the middle of something here before all that!”

“I’m covered in hair, Ron. It itches,” Harry complained. “Besides, it’s my reward. I ought to be able to claim it when I want to. You didn’t set a time limit on it. You never said it expired in an hour, or anything.” Grinning at the scowl on Ron’s face, he strolled from the room.

“Prat!” Ron shouted after him.

What the hell was he playing at? Ron knew that Harry was hard as a rock. The itch of the hair couldn’t be stronger than the itch in his pants, he thought irritably. He knew Harry liked to be squeaky clean before he was with them, but this was ridiculous.

Harry appeared to have some mental aversion to having a single speck of dirt on him, as if he’d been wallowing in mud all day and was afraid he reeked and might offend or sully them if he didn’t scrub himself raw first. They didn’t always afford him time in the evenings to shower, but Ron knew he preferred it. It was simply another quirk of Harry’s, which Ron couldn’t fathom, but accepted. Of course, Ron hadn’t had the experiences in the dungeon that Harry had either. Perhaps his desire for cleanliness stemmed from the things that had happened to him there.

“Well, that didn’t go quite as I expected,” Hermione admitted, flopping down on the couch beside him.

“Yeah, me either,” Ron agreed. “I think he’s getting entirely too cocky.”

Hermione burst into laughter. “He definitely got the better of us tonight.”

“The night’s not over yet.” Ron promised, pulling her onto his lap.

But it turned out that it was, with Harry at least.

“Not tonight. I’m tired,” Harry complained when Ron reached for him when he’d returned from the bathroom.

Back in his jeans and barefoot with his skin pink, he sank down on the couch beside them before yawning hugely.

“Are you not sleeping? I thought that was the whole reason you wanted to go back to your own room,” Ron questioned him worriedly.

“I am sleeping,” Harry assured him quickly. “But I’ve told you, doing wandless magic exhausts me. That, plus wrestling with you, has just worn me out tonight, all right? Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you. Disappointed, maybe, but I’ll get over it. I’m just concerned you’re all right.” Ron explained. He understood that not everyone could have the same raging libido as he did.

“Everything’s fine, Ron. Stop worrying about me. I just want to be fresh and ready for my date with the Veela cousin’s tomorrow, you know.” Grinning and waggling his eyebrows, he leaned over to them, kissing Hermione on the neck and Ron quickly on the mouth. “I’m going to bed. You two enjoy yourselves with that vat of chocolate. Or, I highly recommend seeing if Hermione might be willing to clean up that mop of yours a bit, too, Ron. That haircut was damn near orgasmic and a lot less messy, I’ll wager.” Then he hopped up, and left the room again, leaving Ron and Hermione to stare, bewildered, after him.

If Ron thought things would go better the next night with Harry, he’d been wrong. 

They spent the morning locked up in the tiniest bedroom with Griphook, as usual, and Ron held his temper through most of the goblin’s snide remarks. But he was becoming increasingly concerned about how much time it was going to take them to get that Horcrux from the bank. They only had an hour of Hermione polyjuiced as Bellatrix to talk their way past the guards at the entrance, and then convince the goblins to take her to the Lestrange vault, which they’d learned was in the deepest levels of the bank. Then they had to search for the Horcrux without even knowing what the hell it was, get it and get back out before the potions effects wore off.

The plan was becoming progressively less plausible the longer they planned. Today they were working on contingency plans for escape if they ran out of time. It wasn’t until Griphook displayed pleasure at the idea that they might have to fight their way past bank wizards, possibly injuring them that Ron finally lost his head completely and broke his promise. That’s when things got ugly. 

“My brother was one of those bank wizards, you fucking bastard!” He’d shouted. “The same one who’s allowing you room in his house and providing the food off his table. The one who’s offering you protection and waiting on your miserable arse hand and foot!”

Then, seeing the sneer on Griphook’s face, he’d snapped and launched himself at the goblin, shouting threats and obscenities. He didn’t even remember exactly what he’d done or said after that. He only came back to himself when Harry had him smashed against the wall with his arm wrenched behind his back, struggling to hold him while Ron fought to break free.

“That’s the second time you’ve bloodied my lip in as many weeks,” Harry growled into his ear, jerking his arm farther upwards so that Ron grunted when the pain seared. “I’m going to chalk that one up as an accident, but do it again, and I’ll knock you on your arse. Understand?”

Ron nodded and stopped struggling though he was still panting in pain.

Harry lowered his voice to a hiss then, but didn’t let up on the tension in Ron's arm. “You better get your shit together fast before you fuck this up any worse for us. We need him, Ron!”

“I know,” he agreed miserably, the sound muffled because his face was squashed against the wall. “I’m all right, now. I’m okay. Let me go.”

Harry finally loosened his grip, and Ron pulled his arm free. He turned around, but Harry still held him pinned against the wall with a hand at his chest, glaring at him as he wiped blood from his bottom lip with his thumb.

“Ron, I think it might be a good idea if you took a walk,” Hermione said shakily.

Her eyes were wide and round with fear, and her wand was out, pointed at him. Looking shocked and a little fearful, Griphook stood slightly behind her where it appeared that she’d hastily pulled him off the bed to safety, and was now protecting him with her own body. All of her carefully constructed notes littered the floor around them from the chaos he’d created.

“No. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Don’t make me leave,” he pleaded, feeling the heat of shame filling him as he raised his arms in surrender.

“I think it would be for the best,” she said tightly, unconvinced by his apology and clearly furious with him.

Ron looked pleadingly to Harry for support, but he only nodded grimly. He was agreeing with Hermione.

“Damn it!” he growled. “I’m sorry, okay?”

He reached out a hand to wipe away more blood from Harry’s lip, but Harry jerked his head back away from Ron’s too familiar touch. His eyes narrowed in warning, and Ron dropped his hand, feeling even more miserable.

“Just cool down a while. Go clear you head. Then maybe you can come back again after lunch,” Harry suggested, now holding the sleeve of his shirt to the cut to stop the flow. “You trying to stay right now is only going to make it worse. You know that.”

Ron nodded. “All right,” he finally agreed heavily. Not looking at either of them when Harry finally released him, he reached for the doorknob. Shoulders slumped, he left the room.

He was hoping not to be seen by anyone, not really wanting to talk to anyone right now or have them witness his walk of shame, but he ran into Bill exiting Mr. Ollivander’s room before he could escape the house.

“What’s going on in there? Sounded like a row. I heard yelling and thumping.”

“Everything’s fine, Bill. I just need a break for awhile,” Ron mumbled, avoiding his brother’s eyes. 

“You look a bit hot around the collar,” Bill observed.

“Yeah, I lost my temper,” Ron admitted.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nah, I’m going to take a walk, I think. Try and pull myself together.”

He wandered outside then, thinking vaguely of pacing the sand by the ocean. It turns out, however, that he probably would have had more privacy inside. He found nearly all the rest of the houses occupants near the shore.

Luna was collecting sea lavender while wearing a wide brimmed hat to protect her face from the sun. She was aided by Fleur while Dean sat nearby, drawing in a sketchbook. All of them had been lured outside, he supposed, to enjoy the bright sunshine and mild spring day. Fleur appeared to be there more for the other two’s protection than anything else as neither of them had wands, and they were out from under the protection of the home’s Fidelius charm here at the shore. She occasionally stared around to ensure they were safe. It was then that she saw Ron heading their direction. Raising a hand to shield her eyes, she lifted her other in a wave when she recognized him. Dean looked back at him as Ron returned the wave.

“Hey,” Dean greeted him cheerfully, patting the stretch of sand next to him in invitation.

Miserable, Ron trudged over and plopped down beside him. “What are you doing?” he asked, more to have something to say than in any real interest.

Dean shrugged. 

“Just drawing,” he replied, pulling the sketchpad back into his lap so Ron could see.

The sketch he was working on wasn’t quite finished, but he’d captured the scene before him very realistically. He’d drawn the two women bent over picking wildflowers in the left side of the page, their long hair blowing in the breeze with a strip of sand and the rolling ocean in the background.

“Damn, Dean! You’re getting really good,” Ron complimented him.

“There hasn’t been that much else to do.”

“Can I see it?” he asked.

“Sure,” Dean agreed, handing the pad over.

Ron flipped through it randomly. Some of the drawings were of different landscapes while others were portraits. Most of them were ink drawings which seemed to be the main medium Dean had available to him, but all of them were remarkably detailed.

“I’ve just been capturing what I’ve seen since I’ve been on the run. I want to be able to show them to my mum and sisters when I see them again.”

“Have you been in contact with your family at all?”

“Just since I got here. I haven’t had the chance before now. Bill took me into the village yesterday, and I telephoned them. It’s the first time I’ve heard my mum’s voice in almost a year. Course, she was crying something terrible so I couldn’t make out half of what she was saying. But still, I never thought I’d miss talking with them as much as I did.”

“They’re safe, though, right?”

“Yeah, Thank God!”

Ron nodded, and then turned back to the drawings. “What’s this then?” he asked, snorting as he flipped the page again. “Don’t tell me you found something like this hiding in a cave somewhere.”

“Nah. I drew it for Luna.”

“What is it?” Ron asked, bewildered by the strange beast.

“A crumpled horn something-or-other,” Dean answered with a shrug. “She was describing it to me, while we were at the Malfoy’s, so I started drawing it once we got here. She actually believes in them, you know. Swears she and her dad saw some one time on holiday.”

“Yeah well, they don’t call her Loony Lovegood for nothing.”

“So why are you out here? Did Hermione send you off with a red card or something?” Dean asked then, changing the subject as Ron continued to flip through the drawings.

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Oh, Shit! She did, didn’t she?” Dean asked, sniggering.

“I said shut up,” he growled. “It’s that stupid goblin. He’s foul! How you could stand being with him all this time, I’ll never know.”

“He’s not that bad. Saved my skin a few time as a matter of fact,” Dean replied. “Once when we were all caught by Snatchers, he managed to help me escape. They killed Gornuk, the other goblin, and probably would have killed Griphook next. There isn’t any reward in capturing goblins, I guess, and they didn’t want to spend the effort hauling them to the Ministry, so they just decided to dispose of them. In the melee after that, he pulled me free and we fled. He could have just made a run for it on his own, but he didn’t.” He paused then, as if remembering that day. “The others we were with didn’t make it,” he said sadly after a minute. “I’d been traveling with a wizard named Dirk Cresswell and the goblins, and then we met up with another wizard named Ted Tonks. Did you know his daughter is married to Professor Lupin?”

“Yup. She’s an Auror, and they’re going to have a baby soon.”

“Really?” he asked in surprise. “He never mentioned that.”

“You know, I think we might have been there that night. The night you met Tonks’ dad, I mean,” Ron confessed, stopping on a drawing of a forest stream at night with a group huddled around a fire.

“What?” Dean spluttered, staring at Ron incredulously.

“We were there,” he explained, pointing to the picture. “Camping by that stream. Our tent was concealed under a load of enchantments, but we could hear you all rustling around and talking.” He decided not to reveal that they’d actually eavesdropped on their conversation using some of Fred and George’s Extendable Ears.

“Why didn’t you come out then? It would have been nice to see you three.”

“Because we thought you might be Snatchers at first, but Dean, we couldn’t do that even once we figured out who you were. If it were just you, maybe, but he’s Harry Potter! He’s got every damn dark wizard in the country searching for him. Even those who might be somewhat sympathetic could decide it’s worth betraying us and turn him in for the huge price on his head. We can’t just waltz up and say hello to every person we run across. The more people who know where we are, the more danger we’re in and the more danger we put them in, too.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Ron continued flipping the pages, seeing portraits of Dean’s companions half hidden in darkness, as if he’d captured their likeness as they appeared illuminated by the fire they’d shared that night. Some made their subjects look sinister, but they were still beautifully drawn.

“I’ve had my own run in with Snatchers,” Ron said then, now staring at an image of Griphook sleeping propped against a tree. “I was alone, but I got lucky. There were only two of them, and I managed to give them the slip. We all got caught the second time, though. You too, eh?”

“Yeah. It was just me and Griphook by that time, and we were seriously outnumbered. No way we could’ve gotten away.”

“Same here. There was about ten of ‘um, I recon, that finally caught us.”

“So how did you get away?” Dean asked curiously.

“We didn’t. We were taken to the Malfoy’s, same as you and Luna.”

“I mean after that.”

“Oh… Harry,” Ron answered simply. “He saved us.”

“He really is the Chosen One, isn’t he?” Dean asked quietly after a few minutes silence.

Ron sighed heavily. “Unfortunately,” he admitted. “So you said more than once. When was the next time?”

“Hmm?”

“Griphook, I mean,” Ron prompted, hoping to move the subject back onto Dean.

“Oh, yeah. Well, as I said, the second time we ran across some Snatchers we weren’t so lucky either, and we were both brought to the Malfoy’s. That’s when he saved my neck again. That Bellatrix Lestrange witch was furious that I couldn’t tell her where you three were,” Dean said matter- of-factly. “That’s when she gave me this.” He indicated his now barely visible black eye. “Then she put me under the Cruciatus, which hurts like hell!”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron replied dryly. “So how did ol’ beady eyes save you from that?”

“He starts mocking her,” Dean said, sounding both incredulous and impressed. “He’s laughing at her and goin’ on about how Harry was playing them like fools.”

“Suicidal was he?”

“Musta been. I kept yellin’ at him to shut up, but he wouldn’t. It got her off me in a hurry though. That’s why he was hurt so bad. She just went at him for hours, but he still wouldn’t stop. Every time he could draw breath, he was laughing again, until I was sure she was going to kill him just to shut him up.”

“It’s a wonder she didn’t,” Ron replied.

“Yeah, well. By the time she was done with him, he was unconscious, of course, and she was nowhere closer to finding out where you three were for her trouble.”

“I’m sure she was furious then.”

“Actually, it seems she’d finally decided that none of us new anything after all. She never came back after that. Just left us all in there to starve to death, I think. That is, until Hermione showed up.”

“I know what that feels like, too,” Ron said solemnly, nodding his head. “They left me and Hermione to die of starvation while they nearly tortured Harry to death.”

“Is that why his arms are so scarred?” Dean asked quietly. “What did they do to him?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dean.” Ron replied. “It was bad.”

Dean nodded his head, letting the matter drop, and they both sat quietly for a few minutes. Ron watched the waves rolling in while the voices of Luna and Fleur were brought back to them on the salty breeze coming off the ocean.

“I started dreaming of food while I was chained there to the walls for days,” Ron finally said, breaking the silence between them again.

“Me too,” Dean admitted.

“Chocolate cake,” they both said together before looking at each other and chortling.

When they’d gone quiet again, Dean asked, “So what are you three planning with Griphook?”

“I can’t tell you, Dean.”

“It’s dangerous, though. Isn’t it? You three were always planning something dangerous at Hogwarts.”

“Normally we’re not the ones planning it. Usually something dangerous just finds us… or Harry, at least.”

“But not this time, though.”

“No, not this time,” Ron agreed. Then he turned to Dean again. “Tell me something. Do you really think we can trust him? Griphook, I mean. He seems a bit too pleased with the idea of us maybe hurting wizards.”

“Well, he hasn’t been treated very kindly by them,” Dean replied.

“Not by all of them. You’ve been traveling with him, Hermione saved him, and Bill and Fleur are looking after him.”

“Look, I agree that he can be difficult,” Dean began, and Ron snorted, “but you and Fleur, in particular, are too hot headed. You lose your temper too easily with him, which just eggs him on.”

“I can’t help it. Being hot headed is a family trait,” Ron said defensively. “You should meet my mother.”

“Well, if she’s anything like Ginny, I don’t need to. She used to get pissed at me for the smallest of things before she finally dumped me for Harry.”

Ron smiled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but she’s always been hung up on Harry. I don’t think you ever really stood a chance, Dean.”

Shrugging, Dean replied, “It never would have worked out anyway, and it looked to me the other day, like he’s still hung up on her, too.”

“Maybe,” Ron agreed, noncommittally, now staring at an image of Hermione and Dobby as Dean remembered them from the dungeon. Only he’d drawn Hermione as she was normally, not as she had appeared that day with her features transfigured.

“As for Griphook,” Dean went on, “he’s bored out of his mind, Ron, trapped with people he hardly knows, estranged from his kind and being pursued now by some very dark wizards. His only form of entertainment, and to blow off some of his own steam, is to provoke the two of you. Stop letting him is my advice to you.”

Ron considered him for a long time. “That’s good advice,” he finally admitted. “Thanks, Dean.”

“No problem,” Dean said with a smile. “Now, do you think if we ask nicely, we can talk Fleur into making a chocolate cake for dinner?”

“Can’t hurt to try,” Ron replied with a laugh.

Ron handed the sketch pad back to Dean then, and they sat in companionable silence for a while as Ron watched him work and thought over his words about the goblin. Dean returned immediately to his drawing to complete it, adding Ron in the right foreground. He drew him from the back, his knees pulled up and his face in profile, watching the two women. Then he finished by adding more details.

Dipping the tip of his quill in the ink bottle perched between his knees to collect a tiny dab of ink, he drew the thinnest of lines to suggest the long strands of wild grass around the girls before loading it up again and drawing thicker lines which he smudged lightly with his finger for the waves in the ocean.

“You know, Luna draws, too” Ron remarked, watching Dean in fascination of his talent. “Well, paints, I guess. She’s pretty good. The whole ceiling of her bedroom is covered in portraits of her friends.”

“You’ve been in her bedroom?” Dean asked in surprise, but there was also a slight hint of warning in his voice as he turned to stare at Ron.

“It’s nothing like that,” Ron said quickly, snorting. “She and her dad live near my parents, but I’d never been there before until recently. We went to meet her father shortly after Christmas to ask for his help. He was one of those I was telling you about that tried to sell Harry to the Death Eaters. He’d been supportive of Harry up to that point, and we thought we could trust him, but they’d taken Luna off the Hogwarts Express and were holding her hostage to stop him printing favorable things about Harry in that magazine he publishes, the _Quibbler_. We just barely got away. I wasn’t too keen on him after that, of course, but I can kind of understand now. They had his daughter. I suppose I might have done the same thing.”

Dean simply nodded.

“If he ever starts publishing again, you should draw the cartoons for him. The ones I’ve seen are in there are all rubbish.”

“Maybe I will,” Dean agreed.

Fleur and Luna were walking up about the time he was finishing, blowing on the parchment to help it dry before screwing the lid back onto his ink bottle. It was a damn masterpiece. Ron got to his feet when they approached, brushing sand off his backside before pulling Dean up by the hand. Then they all turned to walk back up to the cottage together.

“So, Fleur,” Ron began, “Dean and I were just thinking that a chocolate cake would be excellent for dinner, if it’s not too much trouble. What do you think?”

She looked at him, smiling. “I zink zat it would be wonderful if you two wish to make ungâteau au chocolat for dessert. It will be Mr. Ollivander’s last night wiz us.”

“Uh…” Ron replied, looking at Dean. He hadn’t expected that.

“He’s leaving today?” Dean asked.

“Oui. Bill will be moving ‘im to ‘is Auntie Muriel’s after supper.”

“I’m going to miss him,” Luna said sadly. “He was very nice to me when we were being held together.”

After they arrived back at the cottage, Fleur started Dean and him on a recipe for the cake, while she and Luna prepared a simple lunch. Bill was also in the kitchen, preparing the duck for roasting which they were planning on serving for supper.

Ron and Dean worked at the kitchen table because it was the only available workspace left. They had it littered with ingredients as they measured out cocoa and flour into a large bowl under Fleur’s supervision. It was actually quite enjoyable even though the small room was crowded to capacity. They all chatted amiably while they worked and in no time, they had two round pans of cake batter baking in the oven and the table cleared for their meal. Luna had placed a large vase of the sea lavender she’d collected on the table as Bill went to let the others know lunch was ready.

Hermione looked at Ron with trepidation as she and Griphook entered the kitchen behind Harry. Bill, supporting a still very frail Mr. Ollivander, brought up the rear.

“Hey!” Ron greeted them cheerfully.

“Hey,” Harry replied, eyebrows slightly raised at Ron’s change in attitude. His lip had stopped bleeding and it looked like Hermione must have healed it, but it was visibly swollen again.

“What ‘as ‘appened now?” Fleur demanded when she saw him.

“Nothing,” Harry answered quickly. “I just caught a flying elbow in the mouth,” he explained, smiling slightly and holding up his hand to ward her off as she came rushing towards him. “There’s no need to make a fuss about it, Fleur. I’m fine.”

Ron’s ears were turning red and he could feel Dean and Bill looking at him inquiringly. Damn. He had some apologizing to do later.

Ron was allowed to rejoin Harry, Hermione, and Griphook once lunch was finished, and he did much better controlling his temper. His talk with Dean had really helped him straighten out his perspective on the situation, and he didn’t once rise to the goblins taunts, though Griphook gave it his best effort.

Harry and Hermione appeared to have forgiven him again once he’d apologized to them all, including the goblin, for his behavior, and he was feeling quite pleased with himself by the time they broke for dinner.

The roast duck with gooseberry sauce was delicious and served with jacket potatoes and steamed asparagus. When Fleur got up to retrieve the now iced cake from the counter, Ron felt like everything was right with the world again. She served them all a slice before excusing herself for a moment as Ron dug in, moaning with delight the moment the chocolate touched his tongue. When she’d returned, she was carrying a small box which contained the tiara Aunt Muriel had lent them for the wedding.

“I ‘ave been meaning to return zis for some time,” she said, explaining its contents. “I was ‘oping you might be able to deliver it for me, Mr. Ollivander.”

“I’d be delighted to,” he agreed, taking it from her and then kissing her hand. “Anything at all to express my gratitude for your hospitality, my lady.”

“Oohh, can I see it?” Luna asked.

Smiling at Luna is if she were her precocious daughter, Fleur obliged, lifting the lid on the box and pulling the tiara out from its velvet lined depths. The light caught it as she passed it to Luna making it twinkle and sparkle. It was a beautiful thing.

“Silver, encrusted with moonstones and diamonds,” Griphook commented, speaking for the first time. “Goblin made, I believe.”

Beside Ron, Bill bristled. “Yes,” he agreed sharply, “but paid for by wizards.”

They glared at each other for a minute, but Griphook did not challenge Bill’s statement.

“Rowena Ravenclaw had a magical tiara,” Luna informed the table. “It was supposed to make the wearer more cunning. My daddy is trying to re-create it. He was telling me about it. Thinks he nearly has it now. The Billywig wings really made a difference, he said.”

Ron shared a look with Harry and Hermione, trying not to laugh at the memory of that ludicrous headdress they’d seen at her house. Luna and her father were both completely mad, he decided, happily scraping frosting off his plate with his fork.

When dinner was finished, Bill took Mr. Ollivander to Aunt Muriel’s after they’d all bid him goodbye. Then the rest of them helped clear the table and clean the kitchen. Bill was only gone about twenty minutes before he returned again.

“Mum and Dad send their love, as well as the twins and Ginny,” Bill said, kissing his wife on the cheek. “And Aunt Muriel was glad to get the tiara back. She said she’d thought we’d stolen it.”

“Charmant,” Fleur replied crossly.

“Yeah, she’s a real piece of work,” Bill agreed. “Fred and George tell me they’re working on some chewing gum that will cement her mouth shut to give them all some peace, but I told them that they’d be better off getting her to try some if it were chewing tobacco, instead. She’s a hundred and twelve years old, or something. I don’t think she’s got teeth enough to even chew gum.”

“Well, zere is no doubt zat it will not go to waste. Zey will be able to find a market for it, I’m sure.”

“I don’t doubt it. Probably be a best seller,” Bill agreed.

Ron, Harry and Hermione said their own goodbyes a short time later to head back to Grimmauld Place for the night where Ron hoped to express his apologies more thoroughly to them both one at a time. They hadn’t been there long, filling Ron in on some of the things he’d missed, when Hermione got up to make some tea.

“I’m really sorry about hitting you,” Ron apologized, tilting Harry’s face towards him to examine his swollen lip. “I don’t even remember doing it. Did I actually punch you?”

“Nah,” Harry replied. “It was like I said, I tried to grab you and got plowed in the mouth with your elbow when you hauled back to take a swing at Griphook.”

“Did I hit him?” he asked hopefully. “He didn’t look injured.”

“Nope. Hermione pulled her wand as soon as you dove for the bed and summoned him to her,” Harry explained. “He was none too pleased about it either. Imagine the indignity of being Accio’ed off the bed, whizzing across the room as if he were a pillow, or something. He was totally pissed, and not just at you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m sure he got some pleasure, at least, by seeing me get yanked off the bed and slammed against the wall by you,” Ron replied.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Harry agreed. “I rather enjoyed having you pressed against the wall for a change myself.”

“Is that so?” Ron asked, grinning. “Well, maybe I would have enjoyed it more, too, if I hadn’t been in a blind rage, and you weren’t trying to twist my arm out of its socket.”

“But hearing you grunting in pain was the part I liked best,” Harry replied, smirking back at him. “I was hoping to see if I could make you cry later.”

“You can try, prick,” Ron challenged, leaning into him.

“Hot headed bastard,” Harry volleyed back before their lips crashed together.

By the time Hermione returned, Ron had Harry underneath him on the couch, snogging him breathless, and grinding his pelvis into Harry relentlessly. The sheaves of parchment with their notes and diagrams of the bank were carelessly tossed on the floor beside them where Ron had pulled them from Harry’s grip and missed the coffee table while discarding them.

“For God’s sake, Ron!”

“What?” he asked, breaking away from Harry to stare innocently up at her. He’d ended the lip lock with Harry, but not the frotting he was engaged in, continuing to thrust his hips into Harry’s so that Harry’s head fell back on the armrest of the couch. 

Ron knew Hermione’s irritability was just for show, though. Nothing got her hotter, faster than watching him and Harry together. She absolutely loved it, and they’d both learned quickly that you had to start with Harry. If it began with him and Hermione, Harry tended to shy away from joining them.

Hermione must have forgotten what she’d been complaining about as she watched the expression on Harry’s face, who was still fighting to remain silent. Ron turned back to him when it seemed there was no further protest coming from her.

“Your mine now, aren’t you?” Ron asked against his lips, holding Harry by a handful of his hair as he ground him down into the couch cushions.

“No,” Harry replied, smirking up at Ron.

“That’s right, deny it,” he said, chuckling, “but we both know that I’m the thing you’d miss the most. It wasn’t Ginny down there in the lake, was it? She was just a substitute for me, wasn’t she, Harry? Just the safe alternative to your confused feelings about me.”

Harry’s face went blank, suddenly.

_Oh, shit!_ He was such a fucking, big-mouthed prat. He was just continuing their teasing banter, from before, but he’d gone too far. He’d touched a nerve.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly. “That was stupid. I was just teasing, Harry. I’m sorry all right?”

“I don’t want to talk about Ginny, okay? Not here, not like this.”

“All right. I didn’t mean—”

“Look, Ron, I love you… but I’m not _in_ love with you… either of you. I don’t know what this is,” he said, motioning between them. “I don’t know what I’m doing at all anymore. And you’re racking me,” he added.

“Sorry,” Ron apologized again, lifting himself off Harry.

Harry helped to push Ron off him and sat up. Then they just sat there in awkward silence for several minutes. It was obvious to Ron now that Harry was still completely hung up on Ginny, and he’d just pushed him farther away.

“Just say you aren’t _hers_ anymore, Harry.”

“No, Ron. I’m not hers. I don’t belong to Bellatrix anymore.”

“Okay, good. I can live with that then, I guess.”

Ron patted Harry’s thigh before scooping up the scattered parchment off the floor. Then he moved to the other end of the couch to give Harry some space and addressed Hermione. “So, have you figured out what the bloody hell we’re going to do about the sword yet?” he asked.

She glared at him.          

~ . ~

 


	39. Timely Glad Tidings

Hermione stared up at the dark ceiling of the bedroom she and Ron shared. Beside her, he slept, his body curled on his side, facing away from her. He didn’t want to have sex tonight. It was the first time since they’d initially confessed their love for each other, and then made love while their best friend lay next to them, unconscious and clinging to life, that he’d refused her. 

Well, he hadn’t actually refused her. He just hadn’t initiated it as he had at every other available opportunity. Hermione didn’t think there was anything that could dampen his desire, but Harry’s words tonight had stung him. He’d brushed it off, pretending that it hadn’t affected him, but it had. Though he appeared hard and durable on the outside, at his core, Ron was soft and vulnerable.

He never should have brought up Ginny, though. Certainly not after seeing how Harry reacted over dinner at Bill’s the other night. Ron wasn’t being malicious with his teasing. He meant no harm, but he could be callous and insensitive at times. It seemed that he had no filter, as if his stream of consciousness was constantly being broadcast, his every thought vocalized and thoroughly articulated for his audience’s listening pleasure. 

His lack of censure was a trait that she’d been most critical of in the past, but actually found quite refreshing sometimes. You never had to wonder how Ron was feeling or question where you stood with him. Harry was the exact opposite. At his core, there was solid steel. He wasn’t so much filtered as muzzled. Keeping his own council, Harry internalized everything, even more so since his terrible torture and their escape. A rampaging herd of Hippogriffs couldn’t drag out of him what he was determined to keep private. There was a part of her that found that admirable, too. But right now, it was frustrating because he’d become so much more difficult to read.

She’d hoped that things with Harry would progress smoothly. That the feelings between the three of them would grow organically from platonic friendship, beyond sexual desire, and into the fully realized, deeply loving relationship that she so desperately craved. And after the disastrous beginning, which nearly tore them apart, she’d thought that it might have. Once the fight had gone out of him, Harry stopped denying his attraction to them and capitulated, even if only to quiet the screaming grief of Dobby’s death, or to quell the terror of coming face to face with Bellatrix, his most despised tormentor again, and to quench the raging need the moon inspired in him. Whatever his motivation, he had, at last, surrendered himself.

That first time had been rather traumatic for everyone, most especially for Harry. God, she’d thought they might lose him after all when he’d gotten violently ill suddenly, and then started going into shock in the aftermath. But then things improved markedly. Harry’s moods became much less volatile, and he appeared to be stabilizing. Finally opening himself up to it, he seemed to embrace them at last. Yet the ‘ _and they lived happily ever after_ ’ fairytale ending she’d hoped for, remained elusive.

After those first few promising days, a subtle reversal began. He’d refused to move back in with them, declined to return to the sleeping arrangements they’d shared here at Number Twelve since their first escape from Malfoy Manor. He’d begun to separate himself from them again emotionally, too, cutting himself off from their relationship as if he still believed he was an unwanted intruder. Although he didn’t spurn their advances any longer, he didn’t truly embrace them anymore either, only giving them physically what he thought they wanted from him. It was maddening.

She’d cautioned herself that this would be difficult, that the sudden change in the relationship with his two best friends wouldn’t magically repair all the damage done to him. But she wished with all her heart that it could. Hoping that he would accept the love they offered him along with the sex, she wished that it could heal him. But she was deluding herself. Harry had told them that, himself.

Her best friend was still deeply disturbed, and she was reluctantly being forced to consider that the damage may be permanent. Mentally, he might not ever fully recover from the trauma so savagely inflicted on him. The worst part, for all of them, was that the terror was not over. Their time here was simply a brief reprieve, and every day they grew closer to their planned attempt on the Horcrux in Bellatrix’s vault, the more Harry seemed to regress, slowly pulling away from them again and into himself.

Yet they could do nothing besides move forward towards their goal. The pressure and fear of their seemingly insurmountable task was not his alone. The dark shadow of what they had faced, and were still facing, had cast a pall over all of them. Constant dread clung to them, weighing them down. Anxiety continually clutched at their subconscious, worry turning into doubt and despair. There was no happy ending in sight for any of them, only more danger and fear and awful struggle to survive. Trying to form and strengthen a relationship amid all the terrible chaos and uncertainty in their lives, or possibly, as Harry believed, because of it, was proving an even greater challenge than she’d anticipated. She just wished she knew what to do to change it. They needed the strength of each other to get through this.

Grunting, Ron rolled over, molding himself against her side. As she turned to face him, he clutched her pillow, burrowing into it. Even as he slept, he looked troubled, restless, she thought. Hermione stroked the hair off his forehead with her fingertips, and he frowned.

Well, she thought resignedly, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t do with a break herself. Trying to keep two men at the height of their sexual prime satisfied was exhausting, even though they engaged each other almost as much as they engaged her. Perhaps they could all use a night off to reflect, to examine their true feelings without the physical intimacy clouding and heightening their emotions, or masking them. Because getting naked every night certainly wasn’t getting them anywhere. They needed to be doing a different kind of stripping off with Harry if they were truly going to grow closer. The question was; how to get him to do that? How could they get him to open the steel trap of his thoughts and feelings? How could she?

“I love you, Ron,” she whispered before leaning down and pressing her lips to his. Then she pulled the blankets back off herself and climbed out of the bed. She didn’t know what she hoped to achieve by walking across the hall. Harry was, undoubtedly, already asleep, having gone up to bed before them. Yet even it was just to look upon his slumbering form, she need reassurance that he was still there, safe and sleeping peacefully.

Though she wore one of Ron’s long sleeve flannel pajama tops as she tiptoed to Harry’s door, Hermione was still chilled by the air that blew against her bare legs in the drafty old house after the warmth of the bed. Wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the cold, Hermione leaned against his door jamb and stared in at his dark form, feeling unnerved by the familiarity of the scene and the circumstances which had led her here.

“Are we back to this again?” Harry whispered after a few moments of her quiet contemplation.

Hermione jerked in surprise. “Damn it!” she swore, clutching her chest. “You always do that to me, Harry. I thought you were asleep.”

“Not yet,” he replied.

It was too dark for Hermione to see the smirk on his face, but she could hear it in his voice. She knew that it amused him that he’d startled her.

“I’ve just been lying here, you know. Waiting until I was sure you were both sound asleep before making my escape. But I see you’ve come to thwart me again. What gave me away this time?”

Hermione scowled at the barbed reminder of her last, unsuccessful attempt at espionage, but didn’t answer his sarcastic query. Instead, arms still wrapped tightly around her body, she walked slowly towards him. As she approached, Harry’s scooted back, but he wasn’t retreating in fear of her this time. He was merely making space on the bed for her to join him. When she sat down on the edge of his mattress, he propped himself on his elbow. Eyebrows raised, he stared up at her questioningly while she remained silent because she didn’t know what to say now. She hadn’t expected to be caught spying on him… again!

The dim light in the room appeared to be absorbed by his eyes, making them glow eerily in the darkness as he continued to survey her curiously. Then they slowly travelled over her. Harry examined her with those strange, catlike orbs, now filtered by his dark lashes, winking on and off with the shuttering of his eyelids. Hermione repressed a shudder, holding herself still under that penetrating gaze that made her feel as if she were being x-rayed.

Harry’s lips quirked slightly as he reached up slowly and trailed a tapered finger from the center of her chest, down the placket and over the small wooden buttons of the flannel top she wore. Her heart sped up at the light contact as her back straightened and her arms loosened, her body instantly responding to his touch, the reaction unconscious and automatic.

With one look or a simple touch, he had the power to mesmerize her. It was an indefinably, unique quality he possessed which held both Ron and her completely enthralled. Perhaps it was the conflicting combination of appetence and reluctance she saw in his eyes and felt in the diffidence and fervency of his embrace. Yet, that beguiling characteristic was not present tonight. Instead, he spoke with only surety in his voice and touched her with nothing but confidence in his hands.

“So, are you and Ron sharing pajamas now?” he asked, ending the prolonged silence with his low, amused whisper. “Does he have on the bottoms?”

“Actually, he does,” she admitted.

His smile widened, revealing the tips of his teeth. Hermione almost expected to see large pointed canines from the sound of his voice and the heat of his stare, as if she were the damsel in distress of her imagined fairytale, being stalked as prey, sized up and scrutinized by the wolf before her.

_My, what big eyes you have, Harry… what big teeth!_

“Trying to save on laundry?” he asked next, interrupting her idiotic musings.

“No,” she replied with an embarrassed shake of her head. “I just like wearing his shirts to bed.  It’s simply a coincidence that we happen to be a matching set tonight.”

His fingers had journeyed to the hem of Ron’s night shirt lying against her inner thigh. Licking his lips so they glistened, he flicked at the fabric lightly before turning those lamp-like eyes on hers again, making her heart throb in her chest. “I like you in them.”

Hermione felt heat creep into her face, which was at odds with the tiny shiver that went up her spine at his suggestive words and sensual tone. But he was distracting her, she realized suddenly, and masterfully at that. Harry may still be a terrible liar, but he was an expert at deflection and misdirection. And in this intimate setting, she was all too willing to allow herself to be taken in by him, to be led off course to the familiar destination that brought both comfort and contentment, but not the closeness she was truly after. 

Harry was never this forward. He never ever instigated, only reciprocated, which meant that he had a purpose. He’d known she’d come to talk to him. Clearly, he would rather give her his body instead of willingly enter into a discussion about his thoughts and feelings, as if the former meant nothing to him and the latter was to be avoided at all costs. The thought made her suddenly irritable.

“All right. So, if you haven’t come to check I’m still here. Then have you come to try and seduce me again?” he asked playfully in a drawling voice, eyebrows raised. He was still weaving his spell, still offering himself to her unashamedly. But she wasn’t going down that rabbit hole with him tonight, she told herself firmly.

“That depends,” she replied. “Are you going to get hysterical again if I try?”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, and the grin abruptly vanished from his face at her unexpected reply. “Damn, Hermione! That’s just mean.”

“Oh, are you the only one who’s allowed to make unkind remarks?” she asked waspishly. Her tone was overly harsh from her annoyance at how easily her body had responded to him. At how much she did want to crawl in next to him and feel his warm body against her own, now craving the feel of his soft lips and velvet tongue on her skin.

“What have I said that was unkind?” he spluttered. His face showed genuine confusion as Hermione fixed him with a stern gaze.

“Harry, I think you hurt Ron’s feelings tonight. You know he says things sometimes without thinking first, but he was only teasing. He never meant to upset you.”

“I see. So you’ve come here to demand an apology from me? Is that what this is about?”

“Of course not,” she responded irritably. “I don’t want you to apologize, Harry. I just want you to talk to me, like we used to. We don’t communicate anymore. We’ve lost that closeness we’d begun to share here, and I don’t know where you’re at anymore.”

“Great. Instead of seduction, more therapy is what you had in mind tonight, then,” he grumbled sullenly. ~~~~

“I believe Doctor Ron is off rotation this evening.”

“I don’t think I called him that,” Harry replied tightly, sounding offended.

“Actually, you did.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I said he was utter crap at it, too, then.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed. “But two people can just talk, you know, Harry. It doesn’t have to be painful.”

“Right,” he scoffed disbelievingly. When she remained expectantly silent, Harry sighed heavily and looked away from her. “Look… what I said may have been unkind, but it wasn’t untruthful, all right? Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like I did, but he caught me off guard.”

“Because he brought up your feelings for Ginny?”

Harry flinched, his hands curling. It was a reaction almost identical to the way he’d reacted to Bellatrix’s name, as if he’d replaced Ginny for her as a subject that was now taboo around him, which said a lot about the place Ginny held in his psyche. The fear and hatred that assaulted him at the mention of Bellatrix’s name had been replaced with the guilt and betrayal that consumed him when he heard Ginny’s. Neither reaction was healthy for him. Yet Hermione now realized that Ginny was the barrier he’d erected to insulate himself against them, and her willingness to allow him to make her off limits as a topic of conversation in his presence was allowing the distance to widen between them.

“No. Because he made me question if what he said was true. What if he’s right about me, Hermione? What if I’ve fancied him all along and was just too thick to realize it?”

“Harry, I don’t think you truly believe that. Ron didn’t believe it himself when he said it,” she argued.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Ron meant it as a joke, trusting that you would think it absurd and banter back. We were in fourth year during the tournament for heaven’s sake! You’d just begun to fancy Cho. Ginny wasn’t even on your radar at that point. And you and Ron had only recently reconciled after a bitter, prolonged estrangement. Of course he was the thing you’d miss the most at that moment. His friendship was what you had been desperately missing from the instant your name came out of the goblet, until after the first task. It doesn’t mean that you felt anything romantic towards him.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But there are a lot of things about myself that I didn’t believe I would ever question, yet I’ve been forced by recent circumstances to reconsider.”

“You were only fourteen then, Harry,” she explained, remembering that Ron, at that age, had only just spotted she was a girl. “I expect you probably weren’t having any real romantic or sexual thoughts for anyone, yet, and certainly not for Ron.”

Snorting incredulously, Harry raised his eyebrows at her.

“What?” she asked defensively.

“Maybe not actual romantic thoughts about anyone yet, Hermione, but definitely sexual ones. I had hit puberty by then, you know. By fourteen, I’d been wanking almost nightly in my bed or covertly in the shower right along with all my other dorm mates.”

“That’s an unfortunate image,” she said, slightly repulsed by the thought and feeling even more indignant at the plight of the Hogwarts house elves who were tasked with cleaning up after them.

“Please. Are you telling me that, at fourteen, you didn’t diddle yourself at night behind the hangings of your own four-poster after you thought everyone else was asleep? That’s why they put them there. So the students could have a bit of privacy.”

“Actually, no, I didn’t,” she admitted, flushing. “And I’d rather not think about the other girls in my room doing that behind theirs, either. But I didn’t come here tonight to discuss the masturbation practices of my adolescent schoolmates or the disconcerting forethought of the Hogwarts staff. There’s more to what’s been going on with you and Ron than simply a joke taken too far. You’ve both been so aggressive with each other lately.”

“We’re just blowing off steam, Hermione,” Harry said, deflecting again. “Feeling anxious and nervous about this trip to Gringotts, is all.”

“You’re lying,” she accused. “It’s more than that, Harry. Tell me the truth.”

Groaning in irritation, Harry rubbed at his face before glaring at her. “It’s just… there’s still a lot of stuff between us, Hermione, still a lot of anger that needs an outlet, you know?” he admitted finally, and his words rang true to Hermione this time. “A little rough-housing is the safest alternative for us both to work some of it out. That’s all.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Just stuff, you know?”

“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”

Harry’s jaw had clenched shut, and he remained stubbornly reticent. Hermione waited, but he refused to elaborate. The silence grew between them as the seconds ticked by before she was forced to break it herself.

“Ron thinks you’re angry with him for not being able to help you at the Malfoy’s. Is that it? Are you?” she asked.

“No, of course not, and I’ve already told him I’m not. I’ve got a lot of anger about what happened there, a lot of hatred. But absolutely none of it’s directed at either of you. I promise you.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s you, Hermione,” he finally blurted in exasperation, clearly frustrated that she would not let the matter drop.

“Me?” she spluttered, stunned by the admission.

“Don’t be so naïve. Of course it is.”

“I don’t know wha—”

“You know as well as I do that Ron would have killed me himself when we got out of that hell-hole if I hadn’t beaten him to the attempt. No matter what either of you says to the contrary, I know that a part of him still hates me for what I did to you.”

“Harry, that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. Now it’s time for you to stop lying, Hermione. Whatever the circumstances, I took what didn’t belong to me… something that was yours to give, not mine to take. And all the apologies in the world won’t make up for that.”

“You did what you were forced to do. Ron knows that, and more importantly, I know that. It’s certainly not down to him to avenge my honor or something equally as chauvinistically absurd.”

“Hermione, you don’t understand how badly it affected him having to see that. Didn’t he ever tell you what that Horcrux in the locket tormented him with?”

“No, he hasn’t,” she admitted hesitantly. It had never occurred to her to ask. She was so furious with Ron at his abrupt reappearance after his devastating departure that it never entered her mind to ask for details about the destruction of that Horcrux. Once she’d finally forgiven him for abandoning them and rupturing their friendship after several weeks of punishing him with her stony silence, the matter was in the past. Her thoughts had then turned to finding the next Horcrux and working out the clues in the book Dumbledore had left her.

“Then ask him to sometime.”

“Will you not tell me?”

“No,” was his curt response.

“Harry—”

“Look, I’ve given you enough to go on, all right? But those are his private fears. I wish I hadn’t been there to witness them, myself, and not just because I thought I was facing certain death for the second time in about ten minutes. I’m convinced that for a moment he was considering splitting my skull with that sword instead of the Horcrux, even though I wasn’t even guilty of anything at the time.”

Harry _had_ given her enough to work out what must have happened that night in the forest, she realized. Now that she thought on it, she understood that part of the reason Ron had left them was because he’d been jealous and thought they were excluding him. Then he’d accused her of choosing Harry over him when he’d asked her to leave with him and she’d refused. She hadn’t learned until much later that he’d been in love with her for a long time until he’d confessed it to her after their escape from the Malfoy’s. Afraid of discovering that they might have taken up with each other after he’d left and nervous at how he might be received on his return, the locket must have manifested those fears to torture Ron. Yet so much had transpired since then. Ron might have been worried initially that she preferred Harry, but now he knew that she had always been in love with him, too.

“Harry, whatever happened then was a long time ago now. Things have changed for all of us since that locket was destroyed,” she explained.

“That’s what he said when I confronted him about all this,” he retorted, waving a hand between them. “He pretends that he’s happy with what’s going on between the three of us, but I’m sure it’s a lie. It has to be.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t attribute your own feelings to him. Why do you assume he’s lying? He’s the one that initiated things with you. It could have remained between him and me, but he chose to include you. Pursued you quite persistently, even, when you resisted.”

“Yes, but did he do that because he truly wanted to? Or because he felt pressured to and wanted to be in control of it?”

“I didn’t pressure him.”

Harry stared sternly at her. 

“I didn’t!” she insisted.

“Something was starting between us, Hermione. Something neither of us wanted to admit or knew what to do with. Ron would’ve had to have been blind not to see it happening. Why else would he suddenly want me? There’s no other explanation for it.”

“What had started wasn’t just between you and me, Harry. The attraction was growing between all of us. It might have taken you both more time to reconcile yourselves to that, but you know it’s true.”

“I don’t know what’s true anymore. But if it is, then that just leads me back to what I said before and nullifies your argument. That I was attracted to him all this time and just didn’t recognize it.”

Hermione stared at Harry in frustration. “Fine. I give up,” she said in exasperation. “But you’re being deliberately obtuse, and you know it.”

Harry merely shrugged.

_Damn but he was bull headed!_ It was useless to point out that she was trying to reassure him that his fear that he’d been attracted to Ron when they were both fourteen was unfounded, not that they weren’t attracted to each other now. Somehow, he’d managed to twist her words into confirmation that he’d been both sexually attracted to Ron early on and that Ron was only responding now as a compromise to control things in an effort to appease her desire for Harry. Neither was true, she was sure of it.

Maybe she should reconsider her resolve and resort to simply throwing herself at him, just rip off her top right now and crawl onto his lap. The result would surely be more satisfying than this maddening conversation. She’d thought they were getting somewhere, but in reality, he was merely leading her in circles.

“I just wish I could be like everyone else,” he suddenly confessed. “I wanted just one damn thing in my life to be normal... one thing that didn’t make me a freak!”

“You’re not a freak, Harry.”

“Yes I am! Everything in my life from the time I was a year old, all my experiences have been bizarre and abnormal. Even my pathetic love life and most certainly my sex life. The first girl I ever kissed was in love with my rival in the tournament, whom I’d watch get murdered. The whole thing with Cho was bolloxed from the start. I fancied her, and she knew it, but she chose Cedric instead. And then after he died, she turned to me as the person who’d been the last to see him alive. The reason he was dead, actually. It was some fucked up attempt to be closer to him. I was a substitute for him, and I knew it, but I let it happen anyway. Then with Ginny...  She’s my best friend’s sister who’d had a crush on me since before her first year. I’d known that all along, too, but didn’t feel anything towards her before she started going out with Dean. Then suddenly, selfishly, I wanted her for myself. And now I’m afraid that I wanted her for entirely different reasons. Maybe, like Cho, I was just using her as a stand in for him, taking advantage of her because I knew how she’d felt for me.”

Hermione sat quietly, absorbing his words. Ron’s thoughtless taunt had certainly caused a chaos of conscience in Harry. He was struggling to understand his own motives, but nobody who’d ever seen him with Ginny could deny that he was in love with her. Not as a substitute for Ron, but Ginny herself. If she were to walk in the door at this very moment, Harry would likely never even glance back and her and Ron.

“I’ve watched you with Ginny, Harry. Certainly more than you know, and probably more than I should have. The way you looked at her at Ron’s party… You love her. This wouldn’t be tearing at you if you didn’t, and I’m sorry we caused that.”

“Then that just makes me an even bigger bastard,” he said with disgust.

Hermione watched him scowling down at his hands which were fisted again in his lap. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to stroke his face and cover his fists with her hands consolingly. She wanted to reassure him, but she didn’t have the words and was afraid he would reject her touch. So she sat motionless instead, worried and afraid that the conflict within him could not be overcome, dreading the thought that he was working up the courage to find a way to break away from them without destroying their friendship in the process.

“Harry… Do you regret this?” she asked hesitantly.

Those eyes pierced her again as he studied her while considering his response. Then he sighed heavily. “Yes,” he admitted after a moment, which sent a stab of pain to her chest. “I regret a hell of a lot of things, but you already know that. You know I wish it had never started between us. So ask the question you really want me to answer, Hermione.”

Hermione swallowed hard, curling her arms tightly around her abdomen as if to protect herself from the devastating blow she feared was coming. “Do you want to end things with us?” she whispered, terrified of the answer but at the same time, needing to hear him say it. As painful as it was, she had to give him the opportunity to back out if that was what he truly wanted. Yet, it went against her every instinct to let him go. She wanted to cling to him, plead with him to stay, but that would only prolong the agony for all of them.

Harry sat quietly for a few moments, smoothing the sheets while her anxiety mounted.  She held her breath. Then he glanced at her briefly before looking away again.

“I wish I could. I truly do,” he said quietly. “At first, I told myself it didn’t mean anything, you know? I justified it by pretending it was purely physical between us… just sex. I wanted it to be. I thought I could keep the emotion out of it and with Ron at least, I did. With him, it felt more carnal, almost casual. I think I gravitated towards that because it was safer and less complicated. It felt like less of a betrayal with him, even though I knew it wasn’t. But with you…”

“With me, what?”

“You mix me all up, Hermione. You spin me around and make me want what’s not mine.”

“I am yours, Harry.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t belong to me.”

Hermione watched him thoughtfully for a moment as her tightly coiled insides loosened, feeling some relief at his admission. He was confused and afraid of the emotions they stirred in him. As equally conflicted by his desire to stay with them as he was to return to Ginny, which undoubtedly made him feel like a complete bastard, but made her feel hopeful again.

“You know, Ron told me once, in the beginning when he saw the changes coming in the relationship between us, that I held all the power over him. But he was wrong. You do. You think I’m not yours, but Ron and I both belong to you. We always have.”

“There’s no future in this. You have to know this can’t last. Am I not allowed to try and shield myself from that?”

“There’s nothing to shield yourself from, Harry. This will last for as long as you allow it. I know this is complicated, but neither Ron nor I want just sex from you. We want so much more than that. And the only one of us who won’t embrace this… who wants to pull away, is you.”

“I’m scared. This frightens me, Hermione. You both keep putting pressure on me. Asking me to bend just a little bit more, but I’ve given all I can without breaking completely. Still, it’s not enough. You two always want more. Ron wants more from me physically, and you want me to confess my undying love for you, or something, yet you don’t feel the same for me. You said it yourself.”

“I said it was just as intense. And it grows deeper and stronger every day. Ron has my heart, but you’re my soul, Harry. Ron and I aren’t asking for more physical intimacy with you, we want more emotional intimacy.”

“Where do you see yourself in five years, in ten?” he questioned suddenly. “Do you imagine us all still living here together, playing house?”

“Frankly, I don’t see further than what’s right in front of us. There is no planning beyond getting this Horcrux, and then working towards the next. That’s my future right now, the only one I can entertain.”

“Christ, I don’t want that for you. I want to imagine the two of you growing old together. I want to picture you with several fat babies with curly ginger hair running around and Ron going bald and slightly paunchy, still squabbling with you over the most trivial things.”

“And you? What do you see in your future?”

“Tom Riddle. All that’s in my future is this prophecy.”

Hermione sighed sadly. “What happened to the privilege of our youth, Harry?”she asked wearily. “Did we ever possess it?”

“The ravages of this war have stripped it from us, disillusioned an entire generation of young witches and wizards. But that’s what we’re fighting for. To make sure the next generation doesn’t grow up without it.”

“I hope so,” she said, reaching out to cup his face at last.

“Damn, Hermione! You’re freezing,” he exclaimed, pulling her hand from his face and quickly covering it with both of his own.

Hermione shrugged unconcernedly. But the heat of his hands on her cold skin had made her shiver, goose flesh erupting up her arms.

“Come here. Get under the blankets so I can warm you up.  A few minutes with me and you’ll be sweating in no time.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, her lips quirking in sudden amusement. “Is that a promise? Slightly boastful for you, isn’t it, Harry? I mean, I knew you were trying to get me into bed tonight, but you’ve abandoned all subtlety now.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he retorted, sounding mortified. “I just meant that I’m so hot all the… I mean… because of the damn fever!” he amended when she started laughing. “Bloody hell!” he cursed, before chuckling. “Stop laughing and get in here before I throw you out of my room.”

Harry pushed her until she stood up so he could pull back the blanket, then she crawled in next to him. When she’d burrowed in close, nestling her back against his chest, he threw the blanket back over them, resting his arm over her protectively and enveloping her with his incredible warmth.

“Better?” he asked.

“Mmm hmm,” she agreed, nodding her head while shivering again at the abrupt change in temperature.

“M’kay. Just tell me when you get too hot.”

Hermione tried to stifle a snort.

“Shut it” he growled.

God, he was warm, she thought, still smiling. It really was a remarkable gift, though he thought it a curse, the evidence of some horrible affliction.

“I know the fever bothers you, Harry, but I think Ron was right. I think it’s your magic or the metabolism, or a combination,” she said softly after several minutes of their quiet breathing.

“I knew you weren’t asleep that morning,” he murmured accusingly into her neck.

“No, I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to disturb the two of you. What Ron said was true, though. I think it’s your power. Sometimes, I picture you like a lump of coal, under immense pressure from all that you’ve endured. I imagine the fever as a manifestation of the compression inside you. That incredible force squeezing you relentlessly until you become something even harder, stronger and more beautiful. You said you were afraid of what you’re becoming, Harry, but I think you’re evolving.”

“Well, that’s even more terrifying… thanks,” he said dryly.

“You’re incredibly powerful, Harry. I believe the sun rises and sets at your command, and its flames burn within you, ready to be unleashed at your discretion,” she explained, shifting even closer to him.

Harry pulled his knees up quickly, his arms tightening when she’d spooned against him, but it wasn’t fast enough to prevent her bum coming into contact with his hips.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I can’t help it. I’m always ready for you, Hermione. I have been from the moment you appeared in my doorway tonight, but I swear that’s not why I asked you to get under the blankets with me.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it was, you know.”

Harry didn’t reply, but relaxed his stiff limbs again.

“You know, that morning I was desperate to turn over and watch you two, to see the expression on Ron’s face when you took him into your mouth, but I’m glad I didn’t. Sometimes Ron can say the most insensitive things, but at other times, he can be quite insightful. I enjoyed listening to that conversation.”

“I didn’t much enjoy having it,” he replied.

“No. You never do,” she said with a sigh. “But, darling, it helps to talk about the things that trouble you sometimes, or hear the things you might not want to hear.”

“I don’t need to have an actual conversation with you two to hear what I don’t want to hear. You’re both in my head all the time anyway, telling me what I should do.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in surprise.

“You’re the voice of my conscience, Hermione, and Ron’s the voice of my courage. You tell me to plan carefully and tread cautiously while Ron tells me to leap without looking, to trust my instincts.”

“You actually hear that as our voices?”

“Yes. Is that weird, too?”

“I don’t know,” she answered hesitantly.

“Well, that makes me feel loads better,” he said sarcastically.

“No. It’s just that… I guess I’ve never really thought about it before.”

If she had to give her conscience an identity, she supposed she would say that the internal dialogue she sometimes had with herself were the voices of her parents offering advice and encouragement. She assumed it was probably like that for most people. The thought that she and Ron were the voices in Harry’s head struck her as unusual. But Harry’s parents died when he was very young. He had almost no memory of them. If he could recall any of their advice, it would probably be simple things like; “spit that out,” or, “don’t squeeze the kitty.”

“Are there other voices in your head besides ours?” she inquired curiously.

“Yes, but I try not to listen to them.”

“Why? Who are they? What do they tell you?”

“Nothing ever very nice. They sound like my aunt and uncle, and Snape and Tom, too, sometimes. They’re the voices of my doubt and fear.”

“And Ginny? Is she there, too?”

“No. Ginny never tried to tell me what to do. She only told me when I was being a prat. Like when I thought I was being possessed by Tom or when I was so obsessed with the Half-blood Prince’s book,” he explained. “But I don’t have to hear it in my head because she was never afraid to say it to my face.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “She’s the only one of us who could ever truly put you in your place, you know.”

Harry nodded into her neck. “Well, and Fred and George really, too,” he amended. “They can puncture anyone’s inflated ego.”

That was a better reaction, Hermione thought as she nodded in agreement. Harry didn’t seem to flinch that time or fist his hands. He didn’t even hesitate in his response when she’d asked about Ginny. Perhaps they were making progress tonight after all.

“Why do you call me that?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Call you what?”

“Darling. You don’t call Ron that, but you’ve started calling me darling a lot.”

“I didn’t realize I had. Does it bother you?”

“No.  I kind of like it, actually,” he admitted. “I was just wondering.”

“It means favorite, cherished, beloved or much admired,” she explained.

“I know what it means. Though, I’m not surprised you’d be able to recite the definition from memory. Do you read the dictionary in your spare time for fun, or something?”

“I like to know the meaning of words, and that one best describes what you mean to me, Harry. You are all of those things and more. You’re my protector, and Ron and I are yours.”

“I didn’t protect you, then… at the Malfoy’s… and I don’t know if I can if we’re facing that again. I don’t think I have the strength to endure it again, Hermione.”

“None of us can, but you won’t have to, Harry. You made me a promise the night before we met with Snape. Do you remember?”

“Yes, but—”

Hermione rolled over to face him, gazing into his shadowed face. “You vowed you would never let them take us again if we’re captured, that you wouldn’t let us suffer,” she reminded him.

“I know, but I don’t know if I can, Hermione. If it comes to that, I don’t think I could truly do it.”

“You promised.”

“I don’t want to… I don’t want it to be me who snuffs out your future.  I can’t be the person who ends your life. Even if it’s a mercy. I can’t do it, Hermione.”

“It won’t hurt, Harry,” she whispered, stroking his face reassuringly. “They never uttered a single scream of pain.”

“They were unconscious!”

“Well, then make sure we are, too.”

“Oh, God!” he moaned, trembling all over.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Harry. I know you’re strong enough for this. You did protect us then, in every way you possibly could. And you’ll never let them hurt us again. I know it,” she whispered. Then she kissed him, softly at first to comfort him. But Harry slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head. As the kiss deepened, she leaned forward and pushed him onto his back before draping herself over him.

“This is what I want from you, Harry,” she whispered as she stared down at him, stroking the fringe off his forehead. “This… this openness. You don’t have to confess your undying love for me and Ron, and you don’t have to stop loving Ginny, either. But I don’t want to be just your friend, or just your lover. I want both.”

Harry nodded in either agreement or understanding before slipping his hand up the back of her night shirt as she kissed him again. Holding his head in place with a hand on either side of his face, she threw her leg over him and crawled onto his lap at last. Gripping her by the hips, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes and sighing in pleasure as she moved over him, rubbing herself against his patient arousal.

“Does this mean the therapy session is over now?” he questioned softly as she moved to his neck, placing soft kisses against the fevered, stubble-rough skin of his jaw and throat. “Is this my reward for being a good patient?”

Hermione bit him on the neck, and he grunted in surprise, holding her against him tightly as he shuddered under her.

“Nope,” she replied into his ear before tracing it with her tongue and nibbling on the lobe. “This just means that we’ve moved past the verbal therapy and into the physical.”

Harry snorted and relaxed, releasing the tight grip on her waist to slid his hands up her sides and back. “I definitely prefer that kind.”

“I know you do. That’s why I saved it for last.”

Sitting up, Hermione brushed her hair back her off her shoulders as Harry’s hands moved to her thighs. Looking up at her, he stroked her with his thumbs while she began to unbutton her top.

“No. Wait,” he whispered, sitting up, too. Touching the back of her hands lightly with his fingers, he stilled her movement. His eyes examined her again slowly, glowing once more with the fire burning inside him. Then he looked into her questioning face. “Leave it on,” he murmured as he brushed his soft lips across her cheek. 

Leaning into her, he pressed his mouth and tongue against her neck before sliding his arms around her, one in the small of her back and one at the base of her head. Then he pulled his legs under him and lifted her. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he got to his knees. Then he dropped one hand to the bed to support them as he reversed their positions, easing her back down to the mattress.

She relaxed her legs around him as he yanked at the blankets now wadded under them. Then he sat back on his haunches, gazing down at her while his hands crawled up the outside of her thighs and slowly removed her panties. Hermione pulled her feet through, and he tossed them on the bed behind him. Then he ran a hand through the soft curls between her legs before gripping it firmly between his fingers and pulling the skin taut. Hermione moaned in surprise as he stroked her with his thumb and then leaned down to follow it with his tongue.

In Hermione’s admittedly limited experience, both Ron and Harry were excellent lovers. Yet they were completely different in almost every way. Ron approached sex almost instinctively. He did what felt natural to him. He was bold and unafraid, exciting and unpredictable. Harry, on the other hand, had a much different experience with his sexual initiation. At the first touch from either of them, he always flinched, his body tightening as if expecting pain because unlike Ron, whose sexual encounters were based on mutual trust and love, Harry’s early experiences were violent and traumatic, full of malice and hatred.

Slowly, he was losing his fear, but he was still quite shy. At first, his technique with them was to mimic. Only when he was certain that it was allowed, did he touch her where she touched him, understanding intuitively that she was telegraphing where she wanted to be caressed by where and how she caressed him. Once he’d started to feel safe and more sure of himself, his intuitiveness had grown more acute, as if he could sense what she wanted before she even realized it herself or at the same moment.

She had never experienced Legilimency, but it was as if he were inside her own head at times. Yet it always felt as if he were holding himself back, too, as if he were capable of much more, but terrified of unleashing it. The stifled power and arousal seared under the surface of his skin until his body temperature flared dangerously to release it.

While Ron was by no means rough, he could be rather aggressive in his desires. He held nothing back, which she liked. Harry, in contrast, was infinitely gentle, which she also liked. Sexually, Ron was naturally more dominate, and Harry, more passive. Hermione, herself, went back and forth. But tonight, Harry had, for the first time, taken command.

Her heart pounded with excitement as he stroked her with his tongue and teased her with his hands. Then her back arched and she came the moment he slipped his fingers into her. Before she’d even ridden out her orgasm, he was inside her, prolonging her release with the gentle thrusting of his hips.

When she’d stopped contracting around him, he demonstrated that amazing intuitiveness. As if he knew she needed more aggressive lovemaking tonight than he was willing to supply, he lifted her again and sat back. Relinquishing himself to her control, he gripped her by the waist as she pulled herself onto him over and over while he bit down on his lips and squeezed his eyes closed.

Though he might crave it himself, there were certain things Harry was simply unable or unwilling to do, like take her roughly, or on his knees behind her, though he’d seen Ron do both on several occasions and knew she enjoyed it. And though he tolerated it for a time, he disliked being flat on his back with either of them over him. Face to face, or side by side were his preferred positions. Everything else likely reminded him of something horrible that he had yet to overcome. Still, it had excited him when she’d bitten him earlier, a reaction she’d not expected. So she decided to try that little experiment again.

“Oh, God, yes!” he gasped, his skin flaring with sudden heat when she bit down on his neck for the second time as his hands tightened around her, and his body jolted upwards, slamming into her.

Hermione smiled, her teeth still clamped around the pulse point in his neck where she could feel his blood surging beneath the skin through the tip of her tongue. That simple maneuver had made him move vocal than he’d been in ages. She resolved not to share it with Ron, however. He should have to figure it out on his own. It would be unfair to reveal Harry’s secret and ruin the silly contest between them.

Squeezing around Harry, she moved faster and with more force until they were both panting in pleasure. Then his muscles began to tighten and his body stiffened.

“Hurry,” he urged her through gritted teeth, moaning as his hands clenched around her waist and his head tilted back, the chords of his neck straining.

But Hermione didn’t need the warning. Grasping his head, she kissed him hard, her own body soaring again as he came inside her, groaning into her mouth and shuddering in her embrace. Panting in the aftermath, they lay, head to foot on the small bed. Hermione was wet with sweat.

“Sex… in flannel is not advisable… I’ve discovered, unless you’re outside in the snow,” she quipped breathlessly, lifting her shirt rapidly to fan her overheated body.

“Sorry,” Harry chuckled, dragging her foot onto his stomach and stroking it. “It turned me on tonight.”

“Well, that’s good to know. That tells me I won’t have to spend money on expensive lingerie to hold your interest.”

“You could be wearing a burlap sack covered with itching powder and stitched together with barbed wire and I’d still be interested,” he replied. “But if you’re ever in the mood for black satin and lace or something like that, feel free to indulge.”

Hermione grinned. Then she pulled his foot by the big toe and dropped it onto her chest to reciprocate. As she expected, he groaned when she pressed her thumb into his arch, his toes curling in pleasure.

They lay quietly together on his bed while Harry continued to stroke her leg and foot until sleep clung heavily to her eyelids, weighting them down.

“What was in the journal?” he questioned unexpectedly, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?” she said in confusion, blinking the grogginess away again.

“The journal… It was yours, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” she confirmed, before sitting up on her elbows and yawning.

“Several pages are missing from the front. Did you keep them?”

“No. They were utter nonsense, so I threw them away.”

“What did you write about?” he asked curiously.

“Nothing in particular, just ramblings, really. I got it as a gift the Christmas before last, but hardly ever used it. I packed it in my bag, foolishly thinking I might document our journey, as if we were going on some grand adventure, but then I forgot about it until Ron asked me if I had anything that you could use to write on.”

“My head aches, and I’m dizzy a lot,” he announced. “Those were the first words I wrote in it,” he added in explanation of her concerned look. “You’d think it would have been something more profound. I mean, I’d been mute for days, and desperate to communicate, but it was just me answering Madame Pomfrey’s questions about how I was feeling. Half of what I’ve written in there seems bizarre and disjointed. Just my part of the conversations.”

“What about the other half you’ve written?”

“Bizarre and disjointed,” he admitted with a small smile. “And most of it’s really dark.”

“I imagine it is. But that’s the place to put those thoughts, Harry. You need to be able to express them in some way if you can’t talk about it.”

“I never told you how much it meant to me. I never thanked you for giving it to me.”

“It was my pleasure, Harry, but it’s Ron you should be thanking.”

“I owe you both my thanks,” Harry said, nodding in agreement. “For a lot of things.”

“And we owe you ours,” she pointed out. “So, is that why you were still awake tonight?  Were you working in the journal?”

“Not really. I thumbed through it a bit… reading some of the entries, and remembering the things that have happened here since we arrived… I don’t sleep that much anymore,” he confessed.

“Nightmares?” she asked.

“Some,” he admitted. Yet the quickness in his response and the vagueness in his answer made her suspect it was more than some. Still, he hadn’t woken them up with his night terrors recently. Maybe they really were ebbing in frequency or in intensity. Or, maybe, in an effort to prevent the nightmares from forming in his subconscious, he simply wasn’t allowing himself enough sleep. It would explain the chronic headaches he’d been suffering from lately.

_My head aches, and I’m dizzy a lot_. She wondered if that wasn’t still the truth.

“Do you ever have nightmares… about what happened there?” he asked.

“Yes. But not about what you think, I suspect. I have dreams that I’m drowning or swallowed in fog, cut off from you and Ron, soundless and sightless,” she explained. “And I’m panicked when it comes to claim me because I can’t break free of my bindings. I can’t stop the cold mist engulfing me and taking you from me. Terror grips me with the certainty that if I lose sight of you both, you will be lost forever in the silent shadows, never to return to me should it recede. I wake up feeling like I’m suffocating, cold and shivering in the darkness. I tell myself it was a dream, a nightmare, but I have to light my wand just in case. Even though I can hear Ron beside me and know we’re safe, I search for you, but you’re never there anymore.”

“Can you two wind it down in there please?” Ron shouted suddenly. “It’s lonely over here, and I’m cold. Send Hermione back to my bed you selfish bastard or I’m coming over there so we can all get some damn sleep!”

Harry snorted with surprised laughter while Hermione sat up, spluttering in outrage.

“Ron, you’re an insufferable git!” she shouted back.

“Come on. Harry doesn’t need to snuggle with you to keep warm,” he whined petulantly. “I’m freezing.”

“He’s right. It’s time for you to go back to your room now so we can both get some sleep,” Harry agreed, still smiling as he sat up to search for her discarded undergarments.

“Come with me,” she urged him. “There are no nightmares when you’re with us, unless you count Ron’s terrifying snoring.”

“I can’t, Hermione. I’m not ready yet.”

She nodded, stroking his face once before leaning in to kiss him goodbye. “It was worth a try,” she said with a shrug, pulling her dangling knickers off his finger. “But the door’s always open, and I don’t mind the middle. When you’re ready, we’ll be waiting.”

Harry nodded as she slipped on her panties and got off the bed.

“Leave the wand this time, if you would, please,” he requested, unsuccessfully suppressing a maddening smirk.

Hermione huffed out a sigh of indignation. Then, holding both hands up, fingers splayed wide, she turned on her heels and marched from his room.

Ron was smiling at her scowl when she crawled back into her own bed beside him. Punching her pillow into the right shape, she turned her back to him as she lay down. Unrepentant, Ron spooned himself behind her, his face in the back of her neck and his arm draped over her.

“Is everything all right with him?” he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded, his concern immediately thawing her heart. She should have realized that the absence of his snores must have meant that he’d been lying here awake and listening to their soft voices.

“I think we may’ve made a bit of progress,” she whispered back.

“Good,” he mumbled. “You’re the best, Hermione.”

Hermione laced her hand in his, pulling his arm more tightly around her. “I know. And you’re still a git, Ron, but I love you.”

He chuckled, nuzzling her hair.

* * *

 

The following morning, she was the last to rise. When she woke, she found herself sprawled face down in the middle of the mattress. Lifting her head, she blew the hair out of her face and stared around at an empty, sunlit room before rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning hugely.

It was late, she realized. She could hear distant voices. Reaching for her dressing gown, she tied it around herself before staggering down the hall to the drawing room.

“Do you know if Bill has a tent we can borrow?” Harry asked Ron as she came around the doorway.

“What?” Ron asked, sounding totally thrown by the question. “Oh, hey beautiful,” he added in cheerful greeting when he caught sight of her.

They were both sitting on the couch at opposite ends. Ron was eating toffee from what remained of the chocolate eggs Mrs. Weasley had sent back with Bill for everyone at Shell Cottage the day before yesterday. Thank goodness she didn’t send Errol because she’d also sent along a glazed ham and a basket of hot cross buns, which would have probably killed the poor elderly owl if he’d been tasked with delivering them. It had been Good Friday without them even realizing it, which meant that another holiday was upon them, and March had crept past them while they sat planning in the smallest bedroom.

Knowing his fondness for chocolate, Hermione was surprised that Ron had any of it left at all. Then she realized that it probably belonged to either Harry or her, and Ron had simply helped himself to it when they’d left it unattended.

“Well, I don’t know if he has one. But we can ask. I still don’t understand though… Why do we need a tent?” Ron asked Harry as she sat down in her favorite chair and tucked her knees under her.

“We’ve grown too lax here. I’ve been thinking it over, and we need to make contingency plans for when we make our attempt on Gringotts. It would be foolish to come back here and risk losing this place again like we did after we broke into the Ministry,” Harry explained.

“I agree,” she said, joining the conversation. “That’s a good idea, Harry.”

“You mean just for a short while, right? You don’t intend to abandon this place and start camping all over the countryside again do you?” Ron asked.

“No.  I was thinking only for the one night. Just to make sure it’s safe before we come back here. If we get our hands on that Horcrux, I want to destroy it as quickly as possible. Somewhere out in the open, not here in the house.”

“You’re too right about that,” Ron concurred. “This place has enough bad juju as it is. We don’t need to bring another dark object into it and release whatever horror is inside this one.”

“Actually,” Harry considered. “We might think about taking Griphook with us the night before. That way, we won’t have to wake up Bill and Fleur early the next morning with you two already disguised. If they see both of you like that, I don’t doubt that they’ll put up a fight.”

“That’s probably true,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

“No way I’m sleeping in a tent with that goblin. He’ll probably murder us all in our beds with the sword before stealing off with it in the night,” Ron objected. “Plus, if we give Bill that much of a head start, he’s bound to call the Order to set up a perimeter around the bank by morning to prevent us getting in.”

“That’s also probably true,” Hermione conceded. “I mean, the part about Bill calling the Order, not Griphook going on a murderous rampage.”

Harry nodded in agreement, though Hermione was unsure on which point.

“Well, I’ll keep thinking on that part.” Then he turned his attention to her. “You better hop in the shower if you’re coming,” he advised her. “Ron and I were about ready to leave without you.”

“No, I’m coming,” she replied jumping back to her feet. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Good, because you know Harry and I are rubbish at taking notes,” Ron called to her retreating back as she hurried from the room.

Hermione showered in record time. Chewing a piece of toast Ron had handed her on her exit from the loo, she fumbled one handed to put on her clothes while desperately wishing she had some tea or pumpkin juice to wash it down with. Wiping crumbs from her mouth and fingers, she returned to the drawing room where the boys stood waiting for her.

“Damn! I forgot my bag,” she growled in exasperation. “One sec.”

Harry rolled his eyes as she dashed back to her room to retrieve it before hurrying back to them.

“Ready now?” he asked.

“Ready,” she confirmed.

“Sure you have everything?” Ron teased.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she insisted. “Let’s go.”

“She’s the one who has the lie in, and now she acts like it us who won’t get our arses in gear!” Ron told Harry in mock outrage.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, tucking the bag inside the waistband of her jeans and grasping both their hands.

* * *

 

After arriving later than usual to Bill’s, they compensated by breaking early for lunch, for which Hermione was immensely grateful. She was starving. They ate their ham sandwiches in the walled garden because it was a beautiful day, and they could all use the sunshine. Lunch, she discovered, was early because Fleur need to start preparations for Easter dinner.

“What do you need us to do?” Hermione asked.

“Zere are plenty of ‘elping ‘ands in zis ‘ouse already,” Fleur insisted, shooing off her offer to help. “Too many cooks will spoil ze broth, as ze say.”

“Are you sure? We’d be glad to help.”

“Of course. If I allow zat many of us in ze kitchen, someone will surely be elbowed in ze face again,” she reasoned, smiling radiantly at Harry.

“Come on, Fleur,” Ron pleaded. “Take pity on her. Hermione woke up grouchy, and I think she’s had her fill of Griphook for one day. I have, at least, and it’s a holiday. We shouldn’t have to spend the whole day cooped up in that room.”

“No, that’s not it,” Hermione insisted. “And you haven’t seen grouchy yet, Ronald Weasley. I still haven’t forgiven your rudeness last night!” she added, pointing at him sternly.

The grin on his face, however, said he knew that she had already forgiven him. Hermione glowered at his amusement before turning back to Fleur. “It’s just that I feel like we’re taking advantage of your hospitality.”

“Non-sens,” Fleur insisted. “Vous êtes notre famille. Bill and I are ‘appy you all are ‘ere.”

“Then let us help,” she urged their host. “We don’t do nearly enough for you.”

Ron was right. She needed a break today, though she didn’t appreciate his astuteness. They’d barely even gotten started this morning, anyway. They might as well call it a day and start fresh in the morning.

“Très bien,” Fleur finally capitulated. “Ron, you and ‘Arry can go and collect some firewood. It will grow cold tonight. And ‘Ermione, you can ‘elp Luna wiz ze quiche.”

“Thank you,” Ron said, jumping up to hug her. “You’re the best sister-in-law a bloke could have.”

“I am your only sister-in-law, silly boy,” she replied with a grin, patting his cheek affectionately.

“Still, that doesn’t make it untrue,” he replied.

“Don’t encourage him, Fleur,” Harry warned as he stood up to collect their plates. “I’ll go tell Griphook our afternoon plans have changed.”

Harry took much longer than she expected giving Griphook the news. As she sat at the table with Luna slicing up mushrooms and green onions for the quiche by hand, as Luna didn’t have a wand, he came through the kitchen on his way to find Ron. She stared at him questioningly and he gave her a little grimace in response, tilting his hand back and forth as if to say that the goblin had been less than enthusiastic about the change in plans this afternoon.

“I’ll be right back,” she informed Luna and Fleur as she set the knife on the table and followed him from the room. “What happened” she questioned in a whisper, pulling him by the arm into the empty foyer.

“Nothing really. He’s just being Griphook,” Harry explained. “He says we’re not taking this seriously, accusing me of trying to wriggle out of going and reneging on my promise to give him the sword. It got a bit heated actually.”

“Oh, dear. That’s not good,” she replied worriedly. “Maybe we should change plans again and go back in.”

“Nah,” Harry said dismissively. “I think he’s just nettled at the idea of having to spend the Easter holiday out here among all of us. If we try to force Ron and him back together this afternoon, things will only get worse.”

“That’s true,” she conceded. “Still, I wish things with him were on friendlier terms.”

“So do I,” Harry agreed. “So where is Ron, anyway?”

“He’s outside with Dean. They decided not to wait on you.”

“All right. I’ll go catch up to them.”

* * *

 

Unlike Luna, who seemed completely at home in the kitchen, Hermione had never been much of a cook, which had been a bone of contention between Ron and her when they were still back in the tent. Harry was the only one of the three of them that had been accustomed to preparing his own meals. As Ron was used to being served three delicious meals a day of his mother’s amazing cooking, he was unable to hide the fact that he found her efforts less than satisfactory, particularly when it was his turn to wear the locket. But she did her best today with the tasks given her, asking questions of Fleur about the dishes she was preparing and the Easter customs of the French while Luna enlightened them all with the odd traditions the Lovegood’s observed for the holiday, like wearing new clothes on Easter for luck or cutting their hair on Good Friday to prevent headaches in the coming year.

Though her own family’s celebrations had had almost nothing in common with Luna and her father’s, Hermione had learned that the English had many traditions in common with the French, such as serving lamb at dinner. They also shared the practice of exchanging elaborately decorated chocolate eggs. While in England, Easter dinner was usually served at lunch, in France, it was served as the evening meal and was a bit more elaborate. Of course, French meals were usually more elaborate. They did love to eat. 

The French Easter meal consisted of several courses. The first was usually a light dish, normally served cold, like the quiche Fleur had chosen, or a salad. After the main course, which tonight was to be a rack of lamb braised in an herb sauce, family and friends drink wine and are served a traditional cheese plate with many different kinds of cheese; one bleu, one camembert or brie, one harder cheese, and goat’s cheese if it could be found, along with other uniquely French varieties, some of which Fleur described that Hermione had recalled trying while on summer holiday.

After the quiche went into the oven, she and Luna were assigned the task of cubing the different varieties of cheese and arranging them on a large silver platter while Fleur explained that guests don’t leave the table during this course. This gave them a chance to linger longer over their meal, allowing the heavier, main course to digest a bit and conversation to flow before the final course was served.

Dinner is topped with dessert which generally includes something chocolate. Tonight, Fleur was preparing an almond cake drizzled with chocolate sauce. This would, no doubt, delight Ron as the English often times serve simnel cake.Hermione was sure that Ron wouldn’t turn his nose up at either sweet offering, but given his choice between the two, she was certain that he would always choose the chocolate.

When all the prep work was done and the whole house smelled of warm spices, of baking bread, and cooling quiche, she followed Luna to the garden to gather a selection of fresh flowers for the vase they had planned as a centerpiece on the table.

She felt happy and relaxed when she stepped onto the patio, until she saw Harry and Bill standing face to face in the far corner of the garden, talking urgently. Their body posture told her that the discussion they were having was not a friendly exchange. It was the second conversation Harry had evidently volunteered for today which had turned into a confrontation. Shaking off Luna, she walked cautiously over to the pair of men locking horns again.

“I’ve seen your vault, Harry,” Bill hissed angrily. “There’s nothing in there, unless it’s concealed, that you could possibly need. So whose vault are you really breaking into?”

Harry glanced over at her as she approached, his lips pressed into a thin line before he turned back to face Ron’s eldest brother. “Stay out of this, Bill,” he warned the older wizard. “We’ve confided too much in you, already. Don’t make me regret that any more than I already do. We’re doing this, with or without your blessing. If you don’t want to give us your help, that’s fine, but don’t try and stop us either.”

Bill went red in the face, ignoring Hermione’s intrusion into their heated exchange entirely. “Are you threatening me, Harry?” he asked, taking a step closer to the younger man and thrusting his scarred face into Harry’s in an obvious attempt to intimidate him.

“No,” Harry replied coolly, standing his ground. “I’m just warning you not to interfere.”

“And you think you can stop me, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” Harry confirmed quietly. “Please don’t put me in a position that forces me to have to because I will.” 

Bill’s hand shot out to grip Harry’s arm, and Hermione immediately placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder to calm him.

“Bill…” she began in a soothing tone.

“Let go of me, Bill,” Harry said calmly. His words were spoken softly, not threateningly, but there was no gentleness in his tone, either. It was not a request.

“He’s my baby brother, damn you!” Bill growled, squeezing Harry’s arm tighter. In the next instant, he released Harry quickly and stepped back, shaking his hand as if it had been burned but more likely, numb or stinging smartly from an electric shock. He stared wide eyed and a little fearfully into Harry’s neutral face.

“I’m sorry, Bill. I truly am. I know how worried you are for Ron—”

“For all of you!”

“Fine, for all of us, but we have no choice… I don’t, at least. You can try to talk Ron into staying here, I won’t stop you. I’d be relieved if you could, actually. Try reasoning with Hermione, too, if you would please. God knows I’ve tried my best,” he added, looking at her with eyes that burned with fire and sadness.

“Ron and I would never allow Harry to leave us behind,” she stated firmly while frowning at Harry, closing the door on that conversation before it even had a chance to get started.

“Why can’t you three just stay here with us?” Bill pleaded. “It’s safe here!”

“For how long?” Harry asked. “How long do you suppose you can sit here safely while the entire country falls at his feet with almost no resistance?  How long before his followers find you and your wife… your parents and your siblings? I can’t sit idly by and let that happen. I won’t watch them all get taken from me one-by-one, Bill. I won’t live my life on his terms, cowering and waiting for him to find me. I’ll go out and meet him on my terms, whatever the consequences. I’ll die fighting, not hiding.”

“Fine, then let me come, too. I’m not completely useless, you know, and I know Gringotts better than you do. I can help.”

Harry shook his head grimly.

“Then at least let the Order help you with the fight. I know you’ve got some plan, some secret assignment, but it’s a fool’s errand, a suicide mission to go this alone while there are soldiers willing to help. No single person wins a war, Harry!”

“I know that, and the time may come when we will need the full support of the Order, and anyone else who’s willing to fight, but that time is not now. People might believe that I’m running away, and I don’t give a shit if they do, but I never have, and I never will. This _is_ a race we’re running, Bill, only not a quick sprint. It’s more like a marathon through a mine field, and Ron, Hermione and I are the only ones who have some idea where the explosives are buried. Sending others headlong into that will only spell disaster. Patient planning and careful preparations are what needs to be done right now if we have a hope of winning it.”

Uncharacteristically, Harry put a hand on Bill’s shoulder, who was looking at him with a mixture of wonder and respect, as if Harry were the wizened old general and he was the new, green recruit. Perhaps that was exactly what they were. Harry may be quite young in years, but he was certainly combat tested, having been thrust into battle against Voldemort since he was an infant. Yet his leadership qualities had never been more clearly defined than in this moment. Hermione, herself, felt a little dazed by his speech.

“You have helped… you are helping by opening your home to all of us and Griphook. I can’t thank you enough for that. And right now you can help us further by loaning us a tent if you have one we can borrow,” Harry finished, making the same request that had no doubt started this argument one final time before dropping his arm from Bill.

Bill’s shoulders collapsed in defeat as he stared at the ground for a long time. Then he looked back up at Harry resignedly. “No wonder they follow you,” he growled before pulling Harry to him unexpectedly, which made Harry stumble slightly, off balance at being caught unawares. “You better do you’re damndest to bring them back safely!”

Bill embraced him like a brother, squeezing Harry hard as if they hadn’t seen each other in a very long while or that they might never see each other again. “You hard headed fool,” he complained into Harry’s ear before releasing him. Then he turned to Hermione and pulled her against him. “All three of you are! This is complete madness, but no one can move any of you an inch once you’ve got your minds set. You’re like an impenetrable wall of stubborn determination that none can break through.”

Hermione nodded her head against his chest in relieved agreement.

“No one has the balls to talk to me like that except Mum and maybe Fleur,” he exclaimed with a shake of his head before smirking at Harry ruefully, which reminded Hermione strongly of Ron in that moment, the family resemblance with his face in that expression too strong to deny despite the extensive damage to his facial features. “All right. I do have a tent you can have. It was the other tent Perkin’s loaned Dad that we used at the World Cup. He didn’t want them back since his lumbago is so bad, and I don’t want it back either. Fleur hates camping.”

“Thank you, Bill,” she said gratefully, patting his back as he finally released her.

Sliding an arm around Harry’s shoulder and holding out his other arm to her, Bill led them back into the house. Ron was standing in the living room, watching the three of them enter from the garden with eyebrows raised as they passed him. Without a word, he followed them to the hall closet where Bill rummaged around for the tent.

When he’d finally located it, he straightened up and turned again to face them. Then he handed it to Ron before putting a hand on his neck. “Please be careful,” he whispered urgently before squeezing Ron’s shoulder and walking off.

Ron turned to them questioningly as he held the tent out to her. “Um… anybody want to tell me what that kumbaya moment in the garden was all about?” he asked in bewilderment as she pulled the beaded bag from her waistband and took the tent from him.

“It's not important, Ron,” she answered. “He’s just worried about us.”

Harry said nothing. He was not having his best day ever, and perhaps thought it prudent to avoid pressing his luck with any further potentially explosive conversations today. Turning back towards the living room, he walked off. They followed.

“You want a game of exploding snaps?” Ron asked Dean when they’d settled themselves around the coffee table to wait on dinner.

“Sure,” Dean responded with a shrug.

Two hours later, they were all crammed around the kitchen table in lively discussion while Bill and Fleur cleared away the remains of the delicious lamb supper when an insistent pounding on the door quickly silenced them.

Pulling his wand, Bill ran for the door. Everyone at the table, who had wands, pulled theirs as well, gripping them firmly and staring around at each other nervously.

“Who’s there?” Bill called warily, his voice loud and commanding in the silence of the kitchen.

“It is I, Remus John Lupin,” came the muffled reply through the door. “A werewolf, married to Nymphadora Tonks and member of the Order of the Phoenix.  And you, Bill, secret keeper of Shell Cottage, bid me come in an emergency.”

At the sound of Remus’ raised voice, Harry began to rise from his chair. Hermione placed a restraining hand on his arm and he stopped, turning to look at her. His eyes were blank, his face expressionless as he remained frozen, half sitting and half standing.

Before Lupin had even finished speaking, Bill had yanked open the door. “Remus! What’s happened? Is everyone all right?”

“Where is he, Bill?” Remus demanded, his voice growing louder as he entered the house, his footsteps thumping quickly on the rug in the hallway.

Lupin rounded the doorway then with his hair windblown and his face blotchy and strained as if he’d been crying. His wild eyes searched the faces of the crowd around the table for a moment before landing on Harry, who stood to his full height at the werewolf’s abrupt entrance. At the sight of him, Remus slumped back against the door frame, breathing hard as everyone in the kitchen stared at him in fearful expectation of some terrible news.

“It’s a boy!” he shouted, as if they were on opposite ends of a Quidditch pitch. “I… I have a son!”

“Oh, my God!” Hermione squealed, throwing a hand up to cover her mouth in astonishment as the table around her erupted into exclamations of joy. Yet Remus accepted none of their praise and adulation. His dazed, red-rimmed eyes had never left Harry’s. Both men stared at each other in stunned silence, oblivious to everyone around them. The room grew quiet again as they all watched the pair. Then, without a word, Harry walked slowly around the table and straight up to Lupin before engulfing him in his embrace. Hermione burst into tears.

“Congratulations,” Harry said quietly into Lupin’s ear.

Remus nodded into Harry’s neck, shaking all over.

While the two men continued to embrace, Lupin gripping Harry’s back, clinging to him as if his life depended on it, Bill scurried past them. “Wine!” he bellowed. “We need wine to celebrate!”

Throwing open the cupboard, he scooped up an armful of glasses and a two bottles of wine. Fleur hurried to help him with his burden while everyone continued to watch the embracing pair. Tears were still streaming down Hermione’s cheeks as Ron reached across the table to grip her hand in his own, grinning widely at her.

Through her blurry vision, she watched as they finally broke apart. Lupin looked disoriented, stunned by his own happiness. Ron released her hand and stood to help Harry lead him to the table as if he were blind. The new father dropped into Ron’s vacant seat next to Hermione, still gripping Harry’s hand.

Hermione flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Remus,” she sobbed. “I’m so happy for you!”

“But how is everyone?  Is he healthy? Is Tonks okay?” Ron asked, as if still expecting some awful revelation to follow.

“Yes, yes, of course. They’re both fine,” Remus assured him as Fleur sat down the platter of cheeses and Bill filled glasses of wine, passing them quickly around the table. “It’s been a very difficult pregnancy for Dora, but she was incredible… just amazing!”

“What’s his name?” Dean asked.

“Who does he look like?” Hermione asked eagerly.

Everyone was talking over each other in their excitement, asking questions before Lupin had a chance to respond.

“Yes, all his fingers and toes,” Remus was saying as he accepted the glass from Bill with a grateful nod of thanks. “He came into the world screaming, so he appears to have a healthy set of lungs, as well, but he quieted down quickly once he was in his mother’s arms. Dora says he looks like me, but I think he looks like her. His hair appeared to be dark at birth, but I swear it had turned ginger within the hour! It will probably be blue by the time I get home. Andromeda said Dora’s was like that, too, when she was born, so I suppose he’ll look like whomever he wants to!” he said with a chuckle.

“’E in’erited ‘is mozer’s gift zen?” Fleur asked in breathlessly fascination.

“It would appear so,” Lupin confirmed. “We named him Edward… Teddy, after Dora’s father.”

“It’s a shame he wasn’t born on Friday,” Luna lamented. “A child born on Good Friday and baptized on Easter Sunday has the gift of healing, my daddy says. But I suppose being able to change his appearance at will might come in handy, too.”

Everyone at the table exchanged bemused sorts of looks, but Luna appeared oblivious to it all. 

Remus cleared his throat before beaming at her fondly. “I’m sure it will. Thank you, Luna.”

Bill lifted his glass then. “To little Teddy…” Pausing, he glanced at Lupin inquiringly.

“Remus,” he supplied with a silly, proud grin.

“To little Teddy Remus Lupin. May he grow up to be as wise and strong as his father, as kind and clever as his mother, and more mischievous than them both!”

“Hear, hear!” they all shouted, clinking their glasses together.

“Blimey, a baby,” Ron exclaimed, wiping his face, as if he’d never heard of such a thing before.

They nibbled on cheese while listening to Remus’ tale, peppering him with questions while their glasses were filled and re-filled and Fleur served dessert.

“You must take some food ‘ome to Tonks!” Fleur exclaimed, jumping up again to prepare it. “Wiz all ze excitement on zis special day, you will not ‘ave been able to ‘ave a proper ‘oliday meal!”

“That’s not necessary, Fleur,” Remus replied politely, standing to follow after her as others began clearing the table.

“Don’t be silly. Of course it is. Teddy’s mama will need to build back ‘er strength if she is to provide for ‘er child properly so ‘e will grow up ‘eathly and strong. And a good papa and ‘usband will ensure zat ‘is wife is well fed as she nourishes ze miraculous child zey made togezer wiz sustenance from ‘er own body,” Fleur explained.

“But we have food,” Remus argued. “You don’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“Bill and I ‘ave no ozer gift prepared. You will accept zis from us wiz all our blessings and deepest love for your new family!” she insisted tremulously as the platter shook in her hands.

Remus took the china from her and set it back down on the counter. Then he gripped her hands in his and pulled her against him. “You are a wonderfully warm and remarkably nurturing woman, Fleur,” Remus said softly into her hair. “Tonks and I are already blessed with the amazing gift of friendship from you and Bill. But I would be very grateful to accept the food you’re so lovingly offering to us.”

Fleur nodded, wiping at her face as he released her. Hermione, too, was wiping more tears from her eyes as several people around the table took the opportunity to slink from the room, including Ron.

“When my sister was born so tiny and pink and perfect, I watched as my papa fed my mama food from ‘is fingers, marveling at ‘er strength and sacrifice while she nursed Gabrielle, ‘is child, ze greatest gift a woman can give to any man. You will do ze same for Tonks, no?” she said sternly, her eyes blazing, giving him no doubt as to what the only correct response was.

“Of course I will,” Remus agreed wisely.

“Zat is good,” she pronounced, kissing him on both cheeks before turning back to the counter and pulling the platter back towards her.

Red in the face, Remus turned back to the table where she, Harry and Bill still sat, looking for some help with an escape before he had to agree to anything more, like washing his wife’s swollen feet with his own tears of gratitude. Bill grinned at him unsympathetically while Harry merely looked dumbstruck by the exchange.

_Boys_ , Hermione thought with a roll of her eyes. Then she cleared her throat loudly and stood up, handing Harry the vase of flowers and Remus his half finished glass of wine. “Harry? Why don’t you put these on Dobby’s grave,” she suggested pointedly at his quizzical look. “It’s traditional to put fresh flowers on a grave at Easter.”

Remus gave her a grateful smile as she shooed the three of them out of the kitchen while loudly collecting the plates and empty wine goblets to cover their exit. Then she carried her burden to the sink beside Fleur.

“Well, did I do ze job properly?” Fleur asked without looking at Hermione, but Hermione saw her face split into a sly grin just the same.

“Brilliantly,” Hermione pronounced, nodding in appreciation as she grinned back.

“In such times, men need to be reminded which of us is truly ze stronger sex.” Then she bumped her hip against Hermione’s conspiratorially, which made both of them giggle.

Maybe it was all the wine, she thought as she placed the dishes in the sink, but she was really beginning to like Ron’s sister-in-law.

~ .~

 


	40. Campaign for Control

Remus walked out into the shadowed garden where Harry was kneeling over Dobby’s grave having just dutifully deposited the fresh cut flowers Hermione had given him. Everywhere shoots of new spring grass were pushing up through the freshly turned soil to heal the wound and cover the ugly scar in its landscape. Beside the lichen covered, roughly carved headstone stood a jar of sea lavender with its clusters of delicate violet and white blooms. Carefully arranged next to it was a selection of large seashells and a few polished stones scavenged from the shore as offerings to the departed.

Harry’s continued grief manifested itself in the droop of his shoulders and the bow of his head as he stood up, staring down at the marker and holding the now empty vase upside down to let the water drain out.

“I am deeply sorry that he died. He was immensely loyal to you,” Remus said, offering his condolences quietly as he came to stand next to his dear friend’s son, who he’d come to know and love as his own.

Harry made no reply, but nodded while Lupin put a hand to his neck and squeezed consolingly. 

“Dobby did a magnificent job caring for you, Harry. You look so much better than the last time I saw you, particularly since you did something with that hair.” Smirking slightly, he ran his hand up into Harry’s dark locks, tugging on a clump of the recently shorn strands that stood up perpetually at Harry’s crown like his father’s had before him.

Harry’s lips pulled up into the briefest of smiles for a moment, but then it quickly faded. “He was a dear friend to me, Remus. He saved all of us, and now he’s dead.” Hesitating, he looked up into Remus’ face with those remarkable deep green eyes that were so like his mother’s, yet even more striking framed by his father’s dark hair coloring and her fair complexion.

Now that he'd met his own son, no other child could hope to compare in his eyes to the wonder and beauty of that amazing blessing, but Remus remembered Harry as an especially beautiful baby with those unique features. He'd been fascinated at the harmonious blending of both parents he’d found in their cherubic child. As Harry had grown into a man, his features had lost the soft roundness of youth, changing into the hard planes and rough stubble of adulthood. Yet those same memorable qualities had not diminished in him. He’d only gained more of his parent’s characteristic traits, more of their personalities and mannerisms, despite him having barely known them.

Everyone was drawn to him, and not just those, like himself, who saw so much of his parents, his old friends in his young face. James and Lily’s son had an unusually powerful magnetism about him that was all his own. It bonded all those near to him tightly and protectively around him. No one could ignore it or deny it. Whether Harry wanted them to or not, people couldn’t help but respond to it, either positively, or negatively.

Like his father before him, Harry was a born leader. Yet, by circumstances, or by nature, even more powerfully possessed of it. People would go to war for this boy, follow him into battle with complete conviction, and lay down their lives for him without hesitation. Remus had only known one other person who could compel that same loyalty. Albus Dumbledore.

Allegiance to that great wizard had sent him into battle more than once and back to the torment of his Werewolf kin on Dumbledore's command, despite his great reluctance. But devotion to this man before him had compelled him to kill his own maker, Fenrir Greyback, the man he feared above all others.

“You were right when you told me that the time for Disarming was over,” Harry continued with a voice thick with regret. “It has been for a long time now, but I just couldn’t accept it. I had her wand, and still she killed him. She was aiming for me when she threw that knife, only she got him instead.”

“Were you injured?” Remus asked worriedly, protectiveness surging instantly as he quickly looked Harry over as if searching for wounds through his clothing. His werewolf traits made his eyesight keener than most, but it could not penetrate through layers of fabric, and his nose had not alerted him to any concealed damage either. Harry appeared healthy, at least physically. All he smelled was sadness in his companion which was such a familiar scent on his newborn son’s godfather, that he’d come to associate it with Harry, however much he wished it weren’t so. Sirius had the same melancholy scent in the last years of his life. Perhaps the mutual sorrow between the two of them was what had helped forge the deep connection they felt for each other before that was ruthlessly stolen from Harry, too.

“Well, she tried to eviscerate me first, but she only managed to catch me in the thigh. It wasn’t bad,” Harry added when Lupin’s eyes grew wide with concern. “Hermione healed it. I’m fine, truly, but I couldn’t finish her before Dobby was Disapparating with us.”

A sudden cold blast of fury seemed to emanate from Harry then, chilling the air around them perceptibly. The sharp odor of hatred and regret stung Remus’ senses before it quickly curdled back into the bittersweet smell of sadness, tinged with shame.

He had a sudden image of Harry on his bed in Grimmauld Place, head down, hands in his lap with his hair standing up comically in every direction and the bruising around his eye darkening.

“ _Everyone is dying because of me_ ,” he heard Harry’s anguished words echo again in his ears.

Merlin, life had been cruel to James and Lily’s son! How he wished they’d lived to see him safely grown. How different would Harry’s life and Sirius’ have been if Peter hadn’t betrayed them all? How different his own? God, he missed them, the ache more acute today from his inability to share with his old friends the new miracle in his life.

While Harry was no longer the sole heir of the original Marauders, he, himself had become the lone survivor of that band of rebels because of Peter’s treacherous duplicity. Remus had once mistakenly considered him a friend, but he never had been. Wormtail had finally shown himself as the weak and cowardly traitor he was. The turncoat at whose feet the blame for the others demise truly lay. He was the rat in their midst that they’d all failed to recognize until it was too late, despite the hundreds of literal transformations into that worm-tailed scavenger they’d witnessed. Too naive and trusting they were in their youth to see him for what he had always been.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” Lupin told him bracingly as he stroked Harry’s neck with a callused thumb, knowing Harry was blaming himself for the elf’s death, struggling under the weight of one more burden he had no cause to carry.

 

* * *

 

Lupin’s thumb trailed along the back of Harry’s neck as he whispered lies meant to comfort while Harry again felt the horror of that day, at the other lives that might’ve been lost because of him. It could have been Ron and Hermione he’d watched die. Instead, it was Dobby and Wormtail. And it _was_ his fault. Lupin said no one was dying for him, or because of him, but Dobby did, and he would have to live with that forever.

He looked up at Remus then. “Wormtail is dead, too,” he blurted, realizing suddenly that Lupin might not be aware.

Remus was quiet for a minute. Then he nodded grimly. “Did you kill him, Harry?”

“No,” Harry answered softly with a shake of his head. “I didn’t have to. Pettigrew killed himself, but I would have. He was strangling Ron.”

Remus’ hand tightened on Harry’s neck, but he didn’t respond. To Harry, his silence felt like a remonstration, as if Lupin was struggling to keep the words, “I told you so,” from spilling out of his mouth. He looked down again, unable to meet that amber gaze.

“I should have let you and Sirius kill him that night in the Shrieking Shack,” he confessed guiltily. “So much would be different now if I had. So many lives spared. I caused great damage that day, Mooney.”

“You showed him mercy, Harry. You gave him a second chance to redeem himself. He certainly didn’t deserve it for what he’d done to you, but you gave it anyway. I know what I said at the Burrow, but I was wrong then. I was afraid and worried for your safety and for my wife and the others, but I never should have told you to ignore your instincts. They’ve always served you well, and if I were a wiser man, I’d have remembered that before cursing you in anger when you next tried to set me straight. I regret that very much.”

Harry looked at him in surprise at the mention of that ill-fated visit before it turned to shame. “I’m sorry, Remus. I shouldn’t have said those—”

“No.  Stop apologizing. I was a coward and a fool, and you were absolutely correct. Your father and Sirius would have agreed and used much more force than you did to knock some sense into me. Lily would have been on your side, as well, and done even worse to ensure I saw the error of my ways. She was uncommonly skilled with a wand,” he added ruefully. “After she finished with me, I probably would have been sporting a horse’s arse as a face so that my appearance would match my words. She always was able to keep the three of us in line. In truth, we were all a bit terrified of her.”

“Like Hermione.”

“Yes, like Hermione,” Lupin agreed. “Or Fleur, perhaps.”

Harry nodded while trying to stifle a snort at the image Remus had conjured, but couldn’t. Remembering the scene he’d witnessed in the Pensieve of his father and Sirius with Snape, he recalled how James had eyed Lily’s wand nervously and immediately stopped taunting his rival. That is, until she’d ultimately given her permission and angrily stalked away after Snape had called her a Mudblood. But then the sudden levity left him when the thought of Snape brought forth the other images he’d seen of her in those moments in the dungeon as his former Professor had been assaulting him.

“ _Were you in love with her?_ ” he’d shouted at the man the next time they’d met in the woods, but Snape wouldn’t give him an answer. Harry didn’t need one, though. He already knew the truth.

“Listen to me, Harry. Don’t ever doubt yourself for what you did for Peter and Stan—”

_And Snape_ , Harry thought bitterly. He’d let Snape live, too. He’d had him on his back at the end of his wand, but despite his revulsion for the man and the long list of compelling reasons he had, he couldn’t kill him. Ron had called him a coward for letting him go. Well, he hadn’t actually said it, but he certainly thought it.

“—and don’t ever resist the impulse. Mercy is a rare quality to possess for someone who has lost as much as you so young. You are not to blame for what Peter did with that gift. He chose to squander the clemency you bestowed upon him, and so it was taken away.”

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed Lupin. He didn’t say it, but he wondered if there was any mercy left in his heart anymore.  There might have been for Snape, but there certainly wasn’t any for Rowle, nor would there have been for Bellatrix. But standing here next to Dobby’s grave was a reminder that for every act of vengeance he took, another innocent’s life would be forfeit, and that was much too high a price.

“Why were you three in Diagon Alley?”

Harry looked up at him again in surprise, the unexpected query jerking him out of his thoughts. Then he raised his eyebrows in unspoken question of what Lupin knew while remaining determinedly silent on a response.

“Bill has kept the Order informed,” Lupin admitted. “How else would I have known where to find you?”

“What else has he told you?” Harry asked carefully.

“That you three are planning something, but he won’t divulge what those plans are.”

Harry nodded, the sudden knot of tension in his stomach easing somewhat with the knowledge that Bill had not betrayed their confidence to the rest of the Order to thwart them, despite his belief that this was another suicide mission into which Harry was leading his baby brother.

“You won’t tell me either, will you? Does Bill even know himself?”

Harry stared hard at him through narrowed eyes. “Keep your snout out of this, Remus,” he cautioned sternly. “You have a wife and son that need you. Don’t make me goad you into hexing me again to get rid of you!”

It was unquestionably foolish to provoke Lupin. The very last thing he needed was to get into another row today, and with a real Werewolf at that, who would, without a doubt, be more protective and volatile with his emotions running high after witnessing his son’s birth than Bill could have hoped to be at the fear for his brother safety. But Harry was feeling slightly reckless today and increasingly drunk. Besides, when had he ever done the sensible thing? May as well go for three out of three, he decided, bracing himself then for the curse or punch that was coming. Yet to his surprise, Lupin’s shocked face split into a sheepish grin.

“All right, all right!” Remus said exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in surrender, eight long fingers splayed wide while the other two held his wine glass by the stem. “I just worry for you three… with good reason!”

“I know,” Harry admitted ashamedly.

Lupin grinned at him ruefully before grasping his shoulder and squeezing again. “You have your father’s daring and your mother’s stubbornness. It’s a dangerous combination that would make any person who cared for you worry. Yet, you seem better, though, than when last we spoke. Are you coming to terms with all that has happened to you?” he asked hesitantly.

“I… I’m doing better with it, yes,” Harry stuttered in response, startled by the unexpected question.“I think in some ways, it took Dobby's death for me to finally come round. I won’t lie though, Mooney. It’s still a struggle every day.”

“It always will be,” Lupin replied with an empathetic sigh. “But despite all the bad in the world, there is still good, too. Still happiness to be had, even in the darkest of times… even for people like me, who don’t deserve it.”

“But you do deserve it, Remus!” Harry said earnestly. “You deserve to be happy with Tonks and your son.”

“You deserve it, too, Harry. More than anyone I know.” 

Lupin pulled Harry against his chest then with his hand across Harry’s back. Harry laid his head on Remus’ shoulder, his face pressed into the Werewolf's warm neck, breathing in his scent. He smelled like sandalwood and pine and linen that’s been hung out on the line to dry mixed with the slight tang of musk and dried sweat. It reminded him distinctly of Ron, which was both comforting and familiar, making Harry relax into his embrace.

Feeling slightly drowsy from all the wine, he let Remus stroke the back of his head, allowing himself to take comfort and solace from the last father figure left to him, who, unlike Dumbledore and Sirius, was now truly a father in his own right. The proud parent of his own flesh and blood newborn son. It was a role, Harry believed, that Remus had been born to fulfill.

“You’re going to be a great father,” Harry mumbled into the collar of Lupin’s cloak.

Remus snorted. “We might never know. If I don’t get back home soon, Dora will have thrown me out of the house!”

“You’d better go then,” Harry advised, pulling back to look at Lupin. “Give her my love, okay?”

“I will, Harry,” Lupin promised, handing Harry his half-finished glass of wine before squeezing Harry’s shoulder again. “And I’ll see you again soon. All right?”

“All right,” Harry agreed, nodding. “But bring pictures next time. I want to see what a beautiful child this godson of mine is.”

Lupin beamed with joy. The happiness radiating out of him made him look younger than Harry had ever seen him, and Harry felt suddenly older than he’d ever been. If Remus only knew the reckless man he’d named as godfather to his son, he thought regretfully. With the path he was on, Harry would undoubtedly be a more absentee godfather to Teddy than Sirius had been to him. At least the little tyke had both his parents, and Lupin was close to Bill. He and Fleur would make fine substitutes in Harry’s absence, he decided.

As Lupin walked back towards the house, Harry suddenly called after him, “And for the love of all that’s holy, Remus, do NOT forget Fleur's damned food!”

“Right you are, Godfather!” Lupin called back, his shoulders dancing with his laughter.

Harry stood there smiling, feeling slightly dizzy with relief and off kilter by the news. It had been so long since they’d had any good news. He’d felt dread when he’d heard Remus’ voice at the door, and pure panic when he’d seen his face, certain that something awful had happened. Steeling himself for the worst, he was unprepared for what he’d heard. Harry’s new godson was whole and healthy. It was a gift that was so welcome during these stressful times that Harry was still struggling to accept it. 

He must have looked like a complete idiot just standing there, blinking in shocked confusion, unsure how to react to Lupin’s announcement while everyone in the room watched them avidly. For God’s sake! The best thing he could think to say when his tongue came unglued from the roof of his mouth and his jaws finally unclenched was, “Congratulations!” What a ponce he was. As Godfather, he should have been the one to lead the toast, but Bill had to step in for him instead, doing a much better job than Harry could have ever managed. He definitely wasn’t cut out for this role, he thought dismally as he downed the rest of Remus’ wine.

Night was falling rapidly, the stars starting to glimmer in the clear darkening sky as Harry lurked in the garden. He was hesitant to return to the house before Remus had said his goodbyes to the others and departed, fearful that he might have to witness another exchange between the Werewolf and part-Veela. He didn’t want another horribly private scene described in mortifying detail filling his brain. Already, he couldn’t blink away the image of Remus returning home to his exhausted wife and their new child, sitting beside her on the bed and stroking her shocking pink hair as she cradled their hours old son against her while the baby nursed at her exposed breast.

Christ almighty! It was so inappropriate to picture such things. Why did Fleur have to say that? And why hadn’t he had the good sense to leave the room like Ron and Dean? Had they known what was coming? Did women routinely share those kinds of intimate details with anyone in hearing distance at the news of a new birth?

Cursing his vivid imagination, Harry’s face felt hot with embarrassment, yet the night was growing quite cold. Though the walled garden blocked most of the wind, the warmth of the day was being swept out to sea and the cool night air was rolling in off it to take its place as if some great unseen being had sucked in a great lungful of mild air and then exhaled again a long frigid breath.

Surely Remus had managed to get away by now, he thought hopefully. Even if he hadn’t, Harry couldn’t expect to stay out here much longer before Ron or Hermione came looking for him. He didn’t want to be fetched and ushered back inside like some wayward child, so he gathered his resolve and headed unsteadily back to the house, the empty vase held in one hand and the empty wine glass in the other for balance.

He felt warm, really warm when he stepped back into the living room and closed the patio door behind him. His eyes were starting to droop from lack of sleep and all the alcohol coursing through him. When he turned around, Ron was walking up to him grinning, evidently returning from seeing Remus off.

“Godfather, Harry,” he said, clapping Harry on the back proudly.

Harry grinned back, feeling pleasantly buzzed as he gazed into Ron’s face before his eyes slid down to linger on Ron’s lips. Ron’s own grin faded for a moment as he stared back at Harry before it transformed into a knowing smirk.

“What do you say we head home then?” he asked, pulling the vase and glass from Harry’s limp grip.

Licking his own dry lips, Harry nodded. He didn’t know who else might be in the room, but he really wanted to kiss Ron right now. He really, really liked snogging Ron.

Fucking hell! He was drunk. How many damn glasses had he had? Four? Five and a half? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he needed to get out of here before he did anything stupid because however many it had been, it was obviously too many; more than enough to have dulled his sense of propriety, yet not nearly enough to dull his sudden arousal. If Ron chose to accept the offer Harry was telegraphing none to subtly and wanted to take him right here on the floor in the middle of Bill and Fleur’s sitting room, Harry feared that he was intoxicated enough to let him.

“Come on,” Ron urged him. “Let’s go take these to the kitchen and get Hermione.”

Harry swept his arm in front of him in an ‘after you’ sort of way, ushering Ron ahead of him, which made Ron snort in amusement.

“How ‘bout I follow you instead?” he suggested, inclining his chin in the direction he wanted Harry to take.

Shrugging, feeling uncommonly agreeable, Harry side-stepped him and ambled towards the kitchen to collect the third member of their torrid triad.

Ron Apparated them all home because, like him, Hermione had also had a little too much to drink. Thank God Ron was sober enough to convince his brother he was up for the task or they might have been forced to spend the night at Shell Cottage. Drunk and horny, they would have had to try and sleep if off on the living room floor, struggling to stifle their desire with the fear of being discovered in a naked pile come morning.

As it was, the three of them were tangled up in each other almost the instant their feet hit the floor of the foyer at his Godfather's old house. Harry was fumbling with Ron’s fly while Ron tugged on Hermione’s shirt, their mouths and tongues sliding together, their hands groping as they stumbled into each other and off the walls, practically giddy as they tried to make their way upstairs. They were all going to be bruised in odd places in the morning, but Harry was feeling none of it right now.

Somehow, he ended up in the lead. Maneuvering backwards up the stairs, he’d almost made it to the safety of the landing, but tripped on the last step. Hopelessly unbalanced, arms wind milling absurdly, he grabbed for anything to break his fall, but ended up only dragging Hermione down with him as he keeled over backwards like a felled tree, landing flat on his back in the hallway. Her added weight knocked the breath out of him as her forehead smacked into his and her hair fell all around his face among the stars in his vision. Ron had only managed to stay standing by gripping the banister while making a wild grab to save either of them, but failing, tearing Hermione's blouse in the process.

Staring down at him for a moment in surprised shock, Hermione kissed his forehead once and then burst into riotous laughter as Ron sat down on the step beside them, grinning.

“Anything bent or broken?” he asked, kicking off his shoes before pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it on the stairs below them.

Harry might have responded that he was unsure, or at least giggled along with Hermione if he could have drawn a breath. Instead, his body flared with sudden heat and his vision dimmed. Growling, he swept Hermione’s hair back off her grinning face and gripped her head before rolling with her, reversing their positions so that she was under him on the worn carpet while he kissed her hungrily and ground his arousal against her.

“Guess not,” Ron remarked dryly.

Then Harry was pushing up her shirt, sucking on her ribs and biting at her cloth covered nipples. Drunk and delirious from the sudden familiar pain, struggling to breathe while his head throbbed dully, his mind was in a haze of furious desire that sent him spinning out of control.

Hermione was pulling at his hair, writhing under him when he suddenly came back to himself and realized where he was, who she was, and what the hell he was doing to her. Sitting back up quickly and almost toppling over backwards again down the stairs, breathing hard and blinking rapidly, Harry shook his head, desperately trying to clear his vision.

“You okay?” Ron asked cautiously, staring at Harry uncertainly with a hand on his arm to steady him.

“I don’t know… I just,” Harry stuttered, wiping at his flushed face with shaking hands and staring around, unsure now if Ron had been forced to pull him off Hermione. “God, I’m so sorry, Hermione. Are you okay?” he asked helplessly, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears while his body began to shake at the sight of her savaged clothes and her disheveled appearance. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know what just happened all of a sudden.”

“I’m fine, Harry,” she assured him, sitting up and smoothing down her hair. “You didn’t hurt me, but I think I just got a glimpse of what you’ve been trying to hold back all this time. You definitely weren’t your usual self just then.”

“No… I wasn’t. I’ve had too much to drink… then I fell, and I… I couldn’t breathe… my head was pounding, and I forgot things for a minute,” he babbled between quick short gasps of breath. “I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry.” He felt clammy with cold sweat, dizzy and short of breath, and realized vaguely that he was having a panic attack, though the symptoms were somewhat muted from the wine.

“It’s all right, Harry. I’m not hurt unless you count the lump we’re both going to have on our foreheads tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry!”

“It was an accident. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ron told him, pulling Harry, trembling and distraught, down next to him before rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles at the base of Harry’s head. “You just got a little excited.”

“Damn it! Is it... am I always going to be like this?”

“Just breathe for me, Harry. Everything’s all right now,” Ron murmured, his thumbs digging more firmly into the tense muscles in Harry’s neck. “You need to calm down a bit. We were all a bit too aggressive tonight. We just need to take it more slowly. All right?”

“I don’t think I can,” Harry confessed miserably. Still wound tightly and painfully aroused, he was afraid that more stimulation might cause him to escalate into violence again. “I’m not safe right now, Ron. I should just go to bed and sleep this off.”

“You’ve put me off for the last couple of nights in a row, mate. I’m not giving up on you that easily tonight. So why don’t we just get up off the floor and move to the couch in the drawing room? Hermione will make us all some special tea and we’ll start again with just you and me, and see where that takes us,” Ron suggested, nodding at Hermione, who nodded back in agreement.“You’re safe with me. I’m more of a match for you physically. I can handle it better if things start to get out of control again.”

“What you need to do is to work through it, Harry, not run from it. All right?” Hermione counseled, evidently eager for the opportunity to subject him to more therapy while his defenses were down.

“Yeah… all right,” Harry agreed, though still reluctant as he stared around slowly before looking into Ron’s face. “Just snogging though… just snogging, okay?”

“Okay,” Ron agreed.

“I really like kissing you,” he blurted stupidly.

“I know you do. I can tell,” Ron murmured, still stroking him soothingly. “I like kissing you, too.”

“Really?” Harry asked doubtfully.

“Yeah, really, you drunk bastard.”

Standing up, Ron pulled him to his feet and then Hermione to hers before leading them both by the hand to the drawing room they’d initially been aiming for before everything had come crashing to the floor with him when he’d tripped.

Ron steered him to the couch, and Harry dropped down on it heavily as Ron pulled Hermione into his embrace. Then he tilted her head up by the chin, stroking her hair out of her face and running his thumb across her forehead as he examined her.

“Are you all right to make tea?” he asked with concern. “Think you can manage the stairs again by yourself?”

“I’m fine, Ron,” she assured him, kissing him swiftly. “Truly.”

“All right,” Ron agreed before sitting down beside Harry and patting his knee while Hermione remained standing.

Then she stepped close to Harry. He tensed as she leaned down and kissed him softly before pulling back and running her finger across his lips. “I like kissing you too, Harry,” she whispered. “And I liked how you were kissing me earlier. Don’t be upset.”

Harry flushed and relaxed his fisted hands while she ruffled his hair, relieved that her kiss hadn’t caused his aggression to flare.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she announced as she turned and walked from the room.

Then Ron snogged him long and lazily between forced sips of Hermione’s special tea, which was strong and slightly bitter, until Harry’s lips were numb. Stroking his face, and his hair and his chest, Ron pressed his advantage, taking things further than Harry had initially agreed to go as he slowly undressed him. Yet Harry didn’t put up any resistance to it or even utter a single word of discouragement despite his lingering reluctance.

In an attempt to render him harmless, they’d likely saturated him with an unhealthy cocktail of potions from her bag along with the alcohol already in his system. But he couldn’t muster the strength to care because his head was filled with a foggy contentment which made him incapable of anger or regret. Yet it also made him incapable of sex. He simply wasn't able to get fully aroused despite Ron and Hermione's efforts which Harry found in turns both amusing and frustrating. It looked like working through it wasn't going to be an option for him tonight.

With little grace, Ron finally accepted defeat and settled for an evening of quiet conversation. Harry, the only one of the three of them completely naked but too drugged or drunk to feel self-conscious about it, was on one end of the sofa with Hermione lying against him to share in the warmth of his body while she stroked a thumb absently over the thin, recent line of the scar across his thigh. Ron was on the other end talking softly with Hermione while Harry twirled a strand of her hair, fascinated as the curled end circled his finger while he listened drowsily to their murmured words which were soothing but incomprehensible.

By the time they’d headed off to bed, the effects of the wine and Hermione’s special tea had begun to wear off. Harry thought of Lupin again and the news of his son’s birth as he crawled under the blankets, the slightly musty smell of the linen filling his nostrils as he burrowed into the pillow. But once he was pulled into sleep, those thoughts mixed with the discussion at Dobby’s graveside and the disorienting memories of Bellatrix brought on by that the drunken fall coupled, perhaps, with the fear of not being capable of fulfilling the promise Hermione had reminded him of the night before, had turned into the most horrifying nightmare Harry had ever had.

He dreamt that he was still trapped in the cellar, held without rescue to be tortured and used unendingly while the rotting bodies of Ron and Hermione hung on the walls around him so that he could watch them decay, as their now sightless eyes had once watched him while the Death Eaters had violated and tortured him repeatedly.

He’d refused to leave without them, vowing to die alongside them, but his magic hadn’t come to him. He couldn’t save them this time, and he hadn’t been allowed to die either. Instead, he’d been forced to watch helplessly as his captors had savaged them, listening as they screamed for mercy. Now they were forever silent, their pleas finally answered by Voldemort himself after his final desecration of their bodies, their minds having long since broken under the strain.

Only Snape watched him now. His attempted rescuer had been caught and returned, now chained to the opposite wall so that he could blame Harry for their plight, which he did until his voice finally gave out and his body had shriveled so that it was just graying skin pulled over bone. Harry had been forced to service him daily with his mouth until Snape finally grew too weak to perform even with the potion they continued to pour down his throat. Now he just hung limply from the chains supporting him, his final days spent in observation of his most despised former pupil.

Weeks past in agony and despair with an unrelenting stream of tormentors his only visitors, all his most despised attackers still alive to continue brutalizing him. Then Bellatrix had fallen pregnant with his child, a life created, and growing inside her from the seed she’d stolen from him night after night, the irrefutable evidence of his desire for her. No matter how much he wanted to deny that he ever consented to the sex, he’d learned his lessons well and had become a participant in the act without the aid of a potion, brought to orgasm again and again by her ministrations alone.

Hoping it would be her tonight and not one of the others, craving her sadistic affection and aroused by his hatred of her, he lay in anticipation of her cruel face. Fully erect and strapped down on his back under the jaundiced gaze of his ex-professor, turned on by the promise of the type of pain and release only she could provide him, he eagerly waited for her to appear.

Harry woke up horrified and repulsed by the vile image of her protruding belly and swollen breasts as she sat astride him, riding his stiff cock as he growled under her, baring his teeth and spewing his hatred of her, yet desperate for her hands to tighten around his throat so that he could finally orgasm. The dream was so vividly real, that he couldn’t go back to sleep again, afraid even to close his eyes. So consumed with revulsion by his own throbbing erection that it took all his will not to break his promise to Ron and cut himself open again for relief. He lay there trembling with the effort to hold himself in the bed while his cock slowly deflated. Vowing never to drink another potion-laced tea or drop of alcohol ever again as he struggled to fight off the nausea because if he couldn’t hold it down, and had to run to the bathroom to be sick, he wouldn’t be able to keep from slicing himself open over and over again to bleed out into the sink.

That night was the first night that he’d crept into Ron and Hermione’s room. Once he’d calmed himself enough that he felt like he could leave his bed, he crept straight across the hall on wobbly legs. Hugging his knees against his chest, he huddled in misery in the chair near the foot of their bed as they slept while his head pounded behind his eyes and his stomach cramped and rolled with nausea. Assuring himself over and over that they were alive and healthy as he watched their chests rise and fall while he trembled like a little boy who was too afraid of what was under his bed to go back to his room and sleep, and too afraid to wake his parents and ask for their protection. 

As soon as the first rays of light illuminated the room, he got up and quietly returned to his own bed. It was more than an agonizing hour later before Ron and Hermione finally woke. The sound of their voices was such a welcome reprieve from his persistent anxiety at the self imposed purgatory of being back in the room of his nightmares that a wave of relief rolled over Harry as he crawled back off his bed when he heard them get up and start moving around. Both of them were tousle haired and sleep rumpled when he met them at the door.

“Damn!” Ron exclaimed when he glanced at Harry. “You look like total shite, mate. Are you okay?”

Harry hadn’t intended to tell them anything, or reveal his distress, but he was still so rattled that he simply shook his head and stumbled into the safety of their embrace, shuddering all over.

“What the hell?” Ron asked in bewilderment.

“Harry, what's happened? Are you ill?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head again, still unwilling to speak as she stroked his hair while his head throbbed dully behind his tightly closed eyes.

“Come on,” she urged him, taking hold of his arm. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Noooo!” Harry moaned, resisting her pull as a fresh surge of panic threatened to make him sick.

“The couch, then?” she suggested.

Nodding weakly, Harry allowed them to lead him into the drawing room before he curled up on the couch in a tight ball. Then Hermione conjured a blanket and draped it over him still looking concerned before she sat down next to him and ran her hands over his face and down his neck.

“You _are_ ill!  You’re fever is higher than normal and you’re deathly pale. What do you need me to get for you?”

“Nothing,” Harry mumbled miserably. “I don’t want any more potions. I’m all right.”

“You’re not all right, Harry,” Ron argued.

“I just had a bad night. I’m dizzy, disoriented, and hung over, but it will pass.”

“Did you have a nightmare?” Hermione asked.

“The worst fucking nightmare I’ve ever had,” Harry admitted. “Alcohol and whatever potions you gave me last night are a terrible mix that make for one hell of a bad trip. But I’m not telling you about it, all right? Ever. So don’t even ask.”

“Talking about it—”

“Will only make it worse,” Harry snapped, cutting her off. Shuddering again at the memory, he felt light headed and unreasonably angry at their concern. “I thought I was okay, but I didn’t expect to feel so much relief when you finally woke up. I just need a minute to get my shit together again. I’ll be fine in a little while. Really.”

“All right,” Hermione reluctantly agreed. “But you need to take some aspirin at least for the headache and to try to bring that fever back under control.”

“I’ll bring those little pills and make you some tea,” Ron said before Harry could argue.

“Fine, but don’t put anything in that tea!” Harry warned him.

“Just hot water and tea leaves, mate,” Ron assured him. “I promise.”

“Doctor Ron to the rescue,” Harry mumbled under his breath as Ron headed for the door while Hermione snorted in amusement. “Remind me never to drink anything you give me ever again,” Harry grumbled sullenly as he laid his swimming head against the arm rest. “What did you put in it anyway?”

“Ummm… I don’t really remember,” Hermione confessed. “Maybe you should remind me never to make tea when I’ve had too much to drink.”

“I blame Ron,” Harry said with a derisive snort as Hermione wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder in commiseration of his plight.

Harry turned his face to look at her. “How’s your head?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your forehead from where you smacked into mine when I dragged you down with me last night?”

“Oh,” she said, running a hand across it. “It’s fine. Barely even a bump this morning.”

“That’s good,” Harry replied with a nod of his head.

“And yours?” Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged.

Ron returned with a tea service that also contained a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin. He set it down on the coffee table before shaking out two pills and handing them and the glass of water to Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry said grudgingly.

“I started some porridge,” Ron informed them. “I need to get back down to the kitchen and stir it before it scorches.”

“I’m not at death’s door!” Harry growled in exasperation, throwing off the blanket and sitting up which made him wince as his head throbbed harder and the dizziness intensified. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Shut up and lay down,” Ron insisted. “You’re not leaving that couch until your color comes back. Not on my watch, and you can forget going to Bill’s today. Hermione can send him a message to let Griphook know that we’re all hung over and aren’t coming today.”

“That’s going to piss him off, Ron. We can’t afford that.”

“Yes we can,” Ron argued. “He’s always pissed off anyway so it hardly matters. What's he going to do? Walk away without his prize? I don't think so. Besides, it’s doctor’s orders,” he added with a smirk.

“Damn… heard that, did you?”

“Yup. Now listen to your healer, and shut the fuck up.”

“I agree with Doctor Ron’s assessment, Harry,” Hermione said as she stood up and pulled her wand, grinning at the scowl on Harry’s face as she threw the blanket back onto him and conjured a pillow. “Lie back down and shut the fuck up already.”

Both Ron and Harry gaped at her in surprise, shocked into silence by the novelty of her crass language.

“Fuck you both,” Harry finally grumbled irritably as he tugged the pillow from her grip, pulled the blanket back around him and laid his head down against the cool pillowcase while Ron retreated back to the kitchen and Hermione sent a Patronus message to Bill.

Ron’s porridge wasn’t as good as Dobby’s had been, but Harry ate every last bit in his heaping bowl without complaint before draining his tea. Then once his headache had finally subsided, he promptly fell asleep and slept soundly for several hours.

 “I’m sorry I was such an arse earlier,” he apologized drowsily when he’d blinked himself awake and found Hermione sitting across from him in her favorite chair with a book in her lap. Harry sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, pleased to note that his headache was gone. “I turn into a right bastard when I feel bad.”

“No, really?” she replied with look of feigned astonishment. “Believe me, Harry, we know.”

“I’m trying to apologize, all right? I know neither of you deserved that. I didn’t mean to lash out at you both, but I was embarrassed by my reaction at seeing you awake, feeling sick to my stomach with relief, exhausted and in pain. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. You don’t have to explain, Harry. Ron and I didn’t take it personally. It was obvious that you were in distress.”

“Where is Ron, anyway?” Harry asked, looking around the room and searching for his glasses. “And what time is it?”

“It’s a little after eleven. I sent Ron to search in all the closets of this house a few minutes ago to see if he could scrounge up some robes that would be suitable for our disguises. The former inhabitants of this old place surely have something that might look Death Eater-esque. If not, I’m sure I can transfigure something that will suffice, but it gave him something to do besides annoy me,” she said with a sly grin. “I’ll confess that I’m a bit irritable myself this morning.”

“Great,” Harry said sardonically. “We ought to be fantastic company for him today. He’ll be second guessing his decision to stay home and wishing for Griphook’s friendly demeanor by lunch.”

“You’re assuming, of course, that he already isn’t,” she countered with a laugh.

“True,” Harry agreed. “Maybe you should squeeze in here next to me and we’ll sleep it off together.”

“Are you still tired? Does your head still hurt?”

“No. Actually, I feel pretty good right now.”

“Good,” she said as she slapped her book closed. “Then you can help me start lunch. Unless you’d like to discuss the contents of your dream.”

“I’d rather cut out my tongue with a dull knife.”

“That’s what I thought. Kitchen duty it is then.”

“Fine,” Harry groaned, flinging the blanket to the other end of the couch and tossing the pillow at her, leaving him sitting there in just his pajamas. “Can I get a shower first?”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, what do you need me to do?” Harry asked fifteen minutes later when he arrived in the kitchen where he found Hermione rifling through the cupboards.

Turning to him, Hermione gestured at the selections she's laid out on the counter. “Figure out what can be made with that,” she suggested sheepishly.

Harry looked at the ingredients: several fat potatoes, an onion, a mound of wilted mushrooms and some fish fillets. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said encouragingly, examining the fish. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

“I have no idea,” she confessed.

“How can you be such a brilliant potion maker, yet be utter crap in the kitchen?” he asked, mystified.

Hermione glared at him. “They’re not at all the same thing.”

“Of course they are,” he insisted. “It’s just a matter of finding the right ingredients and then following the recipe.”

“Yes, well,” she began grumpily. “I don’t see any recipes lying around here, do you? Most of the wonderful cooks I know, like Mrs. Weasley, make their dishes from memory or else are inspired to experiment with ingredients and create something utterly mouth watering on the spot. I don’t appear to have that gift.”

Deciding it would be unwise to agree with her on that point, Harry, studied the items on the counter instead, running them against the list in his mind of things he knew how to prepare. “Well, if we have any prawns, I can probably make some soles in coffins,” he suggested finally.

“Can you really?” Hermione asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“Sure, if you want,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s not hard, but it takes a while for the potatoes to bake. It would probably be a lot quicker if I knew how to cook with magic, but I only know the Muggle way. If you don’t want to wait that long, we could simply pan fry the fish or make some fish soup or something. Whatever you like.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said as she went in search of the prawns he’d suggested.

“I’ll need milk and butter, too.”

“What else can you make?” she asked as she returned a few minutes later, placing the items he'd requested on the counter and watching while he pricked the potatoes with a fork before wrapping them in foil.

“I dunno, lots of things, I guess,” he answered absently.

“Did your aunt teach you to cook?”

Snorting, Harry reached around her for the onion. “In a manner of speaking. Though her tutoring was hardly an act of benevolent mentoring, Hermione. It benefitted Aunt Petunia directly to give me the chore of making most of the meals. The fact that she was actually teaching me something valuable was simply an unpleasant consequence,” he informed her as he peeled the onion and cut it in half. “She suffered the lessons and my involuntary presence only to ensure I could prepare them competently. Well, and to subject me to ridicule and punishment if I didn’t perform the task to her exacting standards, of course. There was nothing she or Uncle Vernon liked better than to criticize my shortcomings.”

Hermione had placed a hand over his, stilling his movements. Harry looked up at her questioningly while she pulled the knife from his fingers. Blinking her watering eyes which Harry chose to believe was caused by the onion instead of pity as it was making his own eyes sting, she cleared her throat before saying, “Teach me?”

Harry stared at her a moment in silence before nodding once and stepping back to relinquish the task to her. “That needs to be diced,” he told her as he picked up the pan of prepared potatoes and placed them in the oven. Having nothing else to do then, Harry hoisted himself onto the counter beside Hermione to watch her progress.

Tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, she set to work on the onion, chopping it methodically while repeatedly wiping a few shorter strands of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. The unruly wisps refused to obey her command, however, sliding back into their preferred spot after a few moments to her huff of annoyance and his amusement. On her third swipe across her forehead, Harry took pity on her and reached out to slide the hair back and pin it with his finger. She looked up at him quizzically, and he shrugged.

"You're going to get onion juice in your eye if you aren't careful and it stings like a bitch."

Hermione smiled at him. "I can't imagine it could make them water any more than they already are."

"Trust me," he assured her. "They say you can hold a piece of bread in your mouth to stop the fumes from getting in your eyes, but I've never tried it to see if it works."

"Can you imagine what Ron would say if he came in here with you holding my hair back with a finger to my forehead and me standing here with a slice of bread between my teeth? I'd never hear the end of it."

Chuckling, Harry conceded the point as Hermione went back to her work.

God, she was lovely. Rarely had he ever had the opportunity to just watch her as he did now without fear of being detected by her and then questioned about his motives and grilled about his feelings, or without worrying that it would stir jealousy in Ron if his eyes lingered on her for too long. But under the pretext of overseeing her work and with Ron nowhere around, he had a ready excuse to stare all he wanted. So he did.

Her forehead wrinkled right between her eyebrows as she frowned in concentration. Harry had the urge to smooth it with his thumb, but he resisted. There was a small amount of bruising around it, a match to the one on his own brow. She'd told him it was fine this morning, but it might be tender. He'd already been responsible for that injury. He didn't want to distract her and possibly cause another. That would be just about his luck. Poking a bruise while she was using a sharp knife, real suave.

Hermione's lips pressed together as she worked, her expression grave as if she were diffusing a bomb instead of carefully slicing the onion into absurdly proportionate pieces. Harry's lips quirked, yet he made no teasing comments nor offered any suggestions on her methods. Actually, he found how serious she was taking the subject quite adorable. He'd said it was like making a potion, but the ingredients didn't have to be cut to the exacting standards of Snape to be sufficient for cooking.

She had tiny wrists and delicate small hands with the nails trimmed short and unvarnished, but the fingers weren't blunt or stubby even with their almost childlike size. In fact, they were rather nimble despite their limited span, he thought admiringly. And while both he and Draco Malfoy new from experience that those hands were quite strong when swung with some force, he also knew what they could do to him that was much more pleasurable when she chose to use them in a less brutal fashion, though sometimes with considerably more cruelty. A secret he shared with Ron, perhaps, but not, thankfully, with Malfoy.

Sliding her thumb over the flat edge of the knife, she wiped the diced onion pieces clinging to the blade back onto the cutting board before laying the knife beside it. Then she looked back up at him expectantly. "What's next?"

"We, uh... we need to start poaching the fish," he answered, dropping his finger from her face at last and watching as the trapped hair fell immediately back into her watery, onion-burned eyes.

Sometime later, Ron reappeared as Hermione was carefully lifting the poached fillets from the pan while Harry still sat on the counter beside the stove, holding the platter for her as she transferred the steaming fish. Ron had been in the attic, he’d informed them, having searched the rest of the house before he’d finally found some robes he thought suitable. Triumphantly, he held the dusty garments up for Hermione’s inspection.

“Very nice,” she said, her lips twitching in amusement before she turned hastily back to her task.

“Are you cooking lunch?” Ron asked, unable to hide the dubious tone in his voice as he took in the scene, his eyes falling on the pile of mushrooms still waiting with the diced onion to be cooked.

Undoubtedly, Harry thought, Ron was remembering the rubbery stewed toadstools Hermione had served them back in the tent. The only other food she prepared which hadn’t come from a can that Ron felt safe enough to eat was toast and scrambled eggs.

“Yes, I am,” she replied tightly. “Harry is teaching me how to cook.”

“Oh?” Ron asked, eyebrows raised in surprise at Harry as he draped the garments over the back of the nearest chair before mouthing a silent question to him that Harry couldn’t quite make out, but which was something to the effect of, “Are you mad?”

Harry shrugged. "One of you needs to know how to prepare your own food if I'm not around or you'll likely starve to death."

“Well, it smells good,” Ron said charitably, sniffing the air as he came to stand next to them. He placed a hand on Harry’s thigh and his lips against Hermione’s neck. “How long ‘til it’s ready?” They both looked to Harry then.

“The potatoes have at least another forty minutes to cook, but most of the other prep work is done. We won’t start the rest of this or the sauce for another twenty minutes or so," he explained, gesturing to the remaining ingredients. "You’re still looking at another hour before we eat.”

“Damn, I’m starving.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry pinched off a corner of the steaming fish on his lap before blowing on it to cool it and his burning fingers. Then he offered it wordlessly to Ron. Grinning, Ron stepped closer, his hand running farther up Harry’s thigh as he opened his mouth and closed his lips around Harry’s fingers unexpectedly.

“Mmmmm,” he groaned, the sound more of a rumbling of contentment as he sucked both of Harry’s fingers dry before licking his lips. "That's delicious, Hermione."

Harry sat mesmerized at the sight as Ron stepped even closer and pulled the platter of fish from his lap before setting it on the counter beside him. Then he turned his full attention to Harry, pressing his body between Harry’s legs, his hands crawling their way around to his arse as he leaned in and ran his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth.

“Sounds like we have some time then to see if we can work up an appetite,” Ron breathed against his mouth, sealing his lips against Harry’s before he could reply. The back of Harry's head bumped against the cabinet, making him grunt, but he didn’t mind.

By the time Ron had finally released him, Harry was certainly hungry for something. Aroused almost effortlessly today after last night's failure by the slow stroke of Ron's thumb over the fly of his trousers. The single gesture was both a question and a promise that Harry's body answered in the affirmative and enthusiastically accepted.

Damn, he was a slag.

Satisfied with the response he'd received, Ron pulled back, smirking slightly at Harry's readiness. Yet it was only a tease, a testing of the waters, Harry realized as Ron casually pinched off another bite of fish and popped it in his mouth. He was merely priming Harry, playing with him. He had no intention of delivering on that promise immediately, not after Harry had left him waiting for days. But last night was hardly Harry's fault. Well, not all of it anyway. He'd been willing enough in the beginning before that fall, and still capable at least after it, until Ron had made him drink that tea.

"So, you're feeling better then?" Ron asked, licking his fingers before peering into Harry's face. "You look a lot better."

"Yes, Doctor. I'm fine now," Harry answered, sighing in frustration at the obvious dismissal.

"Seriously. Are you sure? I was afraid you were near death this morning. You said you'd had a nightmare. But you'd tell me if it was a vision, right?"

"It wasn't a vision," Harry assured him. "I promise," he added at Ron's skeptical look.

"You've never looked that bad from just a dream before."

"You didn't see me that night before you found me coming out of the bathroom," Harry countered, starting to get annoyed. Although, in truth, that had actually been from a vision. He'd not admitted that to Ron, however, and never would. "Besides, this wasn't just some dream. It was a drug induced horror helped along by Hermione's 'special tea' you forced me to drink."

"Did you cut yourself?" Ron asked sharply.

"No." He supposed he had that coming to him after having reminded Ron of the incident where he'd been caught doing just that, but it didn't stop his growing irritation at the sudden inquisition.

"Are you lying to me?"

"No, I swear, Ron," he insisted, pushing up his sleeves and showing Ron his arms as proof. "I know you don't believe a word I say anymore, but I didn't. See?"

What he didn't confess was how much he'd wanted to, how strong the urge was to relieve the pressure inside him that way after the panic of that terribly vivid dream, or that he'd taken refuge in their room most of the night as the only way to keep from caving to that desire. He was sure it would have helped him if he had, and still firmly believed that he could keep control of it if he did, but he could never make them believe it. He couldn't hide it from them anymore, either, which was probably the strongest motivating factor that prevented it. Not because he worried that Ron would make good on his threat to beat the living shit out of him because that was still almost as appealing as the knife. It was because he didn't want to break his promise and fail them.

"What was it about?"

"What is it with you two and your morbid fascination with my terrifying subconscious? I'm fine. I don't need to discuss it in therapy with either of you. So just leave it alone and stop psychoanalyzing me, all right? I'm not some damned mental test patient you can practice your experimental remedies on!"

"Woah," Ron said in surprise, taking a step back from Harry. "I was just showing concern, mate. You don't have to be so defensive."

"I'm sorry," Harry apologized tightly. "I just really want to forget about it, Ron. Okay? Please will you let it be this time?"

"All right."

"Thank you."

"Is the moon getting stronger again or something? You're a little all over the place recently."

"Oh, my God! Are you serious?" Harry shouted, his anger suddenly reaching boiling point as he jumped down from the counter and shoved Ron furiously. "You're a prick, you know that?"

"Hey!" Ron barked in shocked outrage, grabbing Harry by the wrist as he attempted to push past him.

Harry whirled around, intending to jerk his arm out of Ron's grip, but Ron yanked him forward before he could even get his feet planted, making Harry stumble into him. Then he quickly threw his arms around Harry, trapping him against his chest. Infuriated, Harry fought to break free from Ron's hold before Ron placed a hand behind his head to pull Harry's face against his neck, pressing his lips against Harry's ear.

"Shhhh," he soothed, stroking Harry's head. "Calm down. I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to make you mad."

Harry stopped struggling then, but stood stiff in Ron's embrace.

"Look, I know I'm a little overprotective and smother you sometimes trying to help, but I think you're overreacting a bit yourself here. Don't you think?"

"I think you're smothering me right now," Harry grumbled angrily, his face still smashed against Ron's neck. Releasing Harry's head, Ron pulled back to look at him and Harry continued. "Why can't I just be in a bad mood or have a crap day without you accusing me of trying to butcher myself? Why can't you just leave me alone to work out my own shit in my own way? You're so far up my arse that I'm coughing up ginger hairs. I know you don't trust me, but I can't even turn around, Ron. I can't breathe."

"You know I don't mean to, but you won't talk to us, Harry. This is more than just a crap day, or a bad dream, or a hangover. Something is going on with you and has been for a while, but you won't tell me what it is. I don't know how to make things right between us again because I don't really know what I did wrong. Everything I say or do causes a row between us so that all we do is either fight or fuck anymore. I don't want that, Harry. I want us to be friends again, too. Okay?"

"We can't be friends, Ron, because we're not equals."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked warily.

"Nothing's changed since the last time we had this same discussion weeks ago, and you know it. You're still trying to control me. You don't want to be my friend. You want to be my master," Harry accused.

"What?"

"You're still trying to be my guardian. The only thing that's changed at all is that we're now lovers which just gives you even more power over me."

"Over you? You must be joking."

"No, I'm not. Look, I get that you need to be in control of this," Harry explained, gesturing between himself and Hermione standing next to the stove, still holding a spatula in her hand and gazing open mouthed at the pair of them. "I'm not stupid. I get it all right?"

"I don't think you do," Ron interrupted.

"Yes I do, and I keep trying to give you that. But you can't force me into the mold of who you want me to be. I don't fit, Ron, no matter how hard you push."

"And just who the hell do you think I want you to be?"

"I don't know," Harry growled in frustration. "Somebody I'm not."

"All I want, all I've ever wanted is just to be with you, but I have to fight and beg for every moment you'll give me," Ron argued. "If I'm fighting for some control it's because you're the one with all the power here. You decide when and where and how. Not me."

"Bullshit! One word, one touch from either of you drops me to my knees and you're both well aware of it. I haven't made a decision with anything _but_ my dick since Dobby died. Even before that, actually, which nearly got the rest of us killed, too. If I'm fighting against that it's because it terrifies me, Ron," Harry countered, stabbing himself in the chest with a finger for emphasis. "I haven't been in control of anything in my entire life, and now I'm not even in control of me. I'm not the master of my own mind and body anymore. Tom controls my destiny, Bellatrix control my dreams, Greyback controls my body with this infection he's cursed me with, you and Hermione control my actions and my desires and my emotions, and nobody controls my magic," he ranted angrily, thrusting out his hand in demonstration so that the spatula in Hermione's grip soared out of her hand and into his. He promptly flung it across the room again in disgust. "Now you want to be in control of my thoughts, too, and I just can't take it, Ron. I can't. It's the only thing I have left."

He was shaking all over, his head starting to throb again as Ron stared at him in stunned silence. Then Hermione left her station at the stove and walked briskly up to him. Throwing her arms around him, she held him to her as she kissed him hard and long. Harry clung to her, too surprised by her actions and relieved by her embrace to do anything else.

"It's okay, Harry," she whispered when she relinquished his lips. "Everything is going to be okay. Ron and I don't want to control your thoughts. We only want to help you shoulder the burden of them. The weight on you is so heavy sometimes and we can both see it. It makes us feel powerless."

Nodding, he pressed his face against her neck, still holding her tightly to him while she stroked his head and crooned soothingly to him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, pulling away from her at last to stare up at Ron. "Maybe the moon is getting stronger again, I don't know. I don't mean to get angry, but I can't help it sometimes. It's not you, though, it's me. It's always me. I wanted this business with Gringotts to be over with quickly because every day that this drags on, I lose a little more of my nerve. It's making me crazy and irritable because I'm more afraid every day. The nightmare last night just brought out all of those fears into vivid reality and it's still too fresh in my mind for me to think clearly."

"But you still don't think that telling us about it will help?" Ron asked resignedly.

Harry shook his head. "All I can tell you is that what happened to us... it could have been worse. It could have been so much worse." He shuddered again, unable to stop himself.

"All right," Ron conceded, "I'm sorry for suffocating you. I'll stop pushing. I promise. But you know that we'll listen if you need to talk, right? About anything."

"I know," Harry agreed.

"I am your friend, Harry. First and foremost," Ron said, smiling suddenly. "And I think I just thought of a new idea that might help. You two stay here and finish lunch. I'm going to Bill's."

"What?" Hermione spluttered. "Ron—"

"Don't worry. I won't be long. I just need to set something up first."

"But what are you going to do?" Hermione whined. "Shouldn't we discuss this... whatever it is first?"

"Harry's wound up tight and needs to let off a little steam, Hermione. What he needs is a distraction to take his mind off of things for a while, and what kind of friend would I be if I didn't give him one? Besides, what's the point of skiving off work for one day if you can't have a little fun?"

"A little fun?" Harry asked skeptically as Ron leaned in to kiss Hermione on the cheek and squeeze Harry's arm before turning to leave.

"Yup, you'll see. At least I hope so," Ron called over his shoulder as he left to get his jacket, leaving Hermione and Harry staring bewildered after him.

It was more than an hour before he returned. An hour of confused speculation, irritation and then worry where they could do nothing but wait. Harry eventually helped Hermione complete the meal, and they were just finishing eating it when Ron reappeared. Having finally decided to follow him to Bill's and demand he tell them his plans, they were clearing the dishes away when they heard the telltale crack of Appararition. Dropping whatever they were holding, they scurried for the door, both of them ready to beat him senseless for leaving them to stew.

Ron met them at the kitchen door, grinning from ear to ear and holding a broomstick in each hand.

"We're going flying?" Harry asked in stunned disbelief stopping short in front of Ron. All thought of retribution had dissolved in an instant as he stared at the vision in front of him. Neither of the brooms was anywhere as good as his Firebolt had been, but Harry had never seen anything in that moment that looked more inviting.

"Yup!" Ron confirmed cheerfully. "It took a little convincing, but they finally agreed. So it's the three of us, Bill, Dad and the twins. Tonight in the orchard behind the Burrow."

"Ron, I don't know. It's dangerous," Hermione warned, though reluctantly as she watched the glazed look of rapture on Harry's face.

"They're all heading over there now to throw on every protective enchantment around the place they can think of. If any of them sees anything that spooks them, we call it off. And we'll go in the evening when it starts to get dark. We've only got four brooms between us so there will be three others around  at all times to keep a look out while we're there. Certainly the Death Eaters aren't expecting us to carry on a pick-up game of Quidditch near the Burrow which has been abandoned for months. We'll be safe. I promise."

"This is the dumbest idea you've ever had, Ron," Harry insisted weakly. "Completely stupid and totally reckless. You must be insane!"

"Probably," Ron agreed. "But do you wanna?"

"Hell yes!" Harry admitted. "More than anything."

~ . ~


	41. Night Flying

Harry reached out a trembling hand, moaning when Ron handed him the broom. Gliding his hand over the polished wood handle, he stroked it reverently, like a lover. Ron was almost jealous, but if he'd had any doubts about his plans, or about Harry's need for relief, it dissolved the moment Harry saw the brooms and realized what he had in mind. Hermione might not agree with him, but this was a good idea. He was sure of it. He'd finally done something right for a change when it came to Harry.

"Thank you," Harry said earnestly, dragging his gaze from the broom held tightly in his fist to stare at Ron. "I don't know what else to say."

"What are friends for? But don't thank me just yet. All I've done is hand you a broom. If it doesn't work out, the only thing you'll be doing with it is sweeping the floor."

"That doesn't matter. In fact, it's probably best if it doesn't work out," Harry told him, sighing with regret as he handed back the broom. "Hermione's right. It's too risky. You shouldn't have done it."

"Why don't you wait and let my dad and brother's decide that, hmm?"

"No. Call it off. You're putting them all in danger for me, Ron. I can't let you do it."

"Are you cracked? I'm not telling Fred and George we've called it off. They're going stir crazy at Aunt Muriel's, same as us. Bill said they nearly fell all over themselves in excitement when he pitched the idea. They'll curse me into oblivion if we back out now!"

"But what if something goes wrong?" Harry argued. "Please, Ron. I can't let that happen. It would be all my fault, and I couldn't bear it. Call it off."

"Nope. I'm not doing it. You need this. I need this. Nothing is going to happen. We'll be safe, I swear it," Ron tried to assured him, but Harry remained unconvinced judging by the panicked, pleading look in his eyes. "Look. If you really don't want to come, you don't have to, but I'm going, Harry, with or without you."

"You know I want to come!" Harry whined in frustration.

"Good. That's settled then. Argument over," Ron said in triumphant relief. "We'll leave it to the others to decide if we go or stay. Now, is there anymore food left? I'm starving."

Propping the brooms against the wall, Ron patted Harry on the shoulder, watching in some amusement the internal struggle going on inside him. What he wanted to do, of course, was pull Harry against him and finish what he’d started in the kitchen. He ached for Harry to touch him the way he’d touched that broom. But he could be Harry’s friend. His best friend, and he intended to prove it. So instead, he left Harry standing there, war still waging behind those eyes that stared after him as he went in search of something to eat.

 

* * *

 

Harry looked helplessly to Hermione as Ron walked past them into the kitchen. "You think this is dangerous, too. Can't you talk him out of it?" he asked pleadingly.

"And break both of your hearts? Even I'm not that cruel, Harry," she said, kissing him on the cheek before stroking it consolingly. Ron might be reckless and impulsive, and she did think this was dangerous, but she simply couldn't take this away from them, however great the risk. The look on Harry's face when he'd handed back that broom had nearly shattered her.

He'd just angrily told them he didn't want she or Ron to be his guardians, yet he was looking to her now to slam the door on Ron's plans for him, to be the bad guy in all this, but he couldn't have it both ways. She may be the voice in his head telling him to tread cautiously, but she was keeping her opinions to herself on this one. Harry needed to decide for himself if the risk was worth the reward.

"Hermione?" Ron called loudly. "This food is bloody fantastic! I've decided that you're doing all the cooking from now on."

"The hell I am, Ronald Weasley!" she shouted back. Grinning in spite of herself, she was pleased by the praise. "You've decided?" she questioned, feigning offense.  Spinning on her heels, she marched back into the kitchen after him. "You thinks so, do you? Well I've decided that you're doing all the dishes from now on then. How about that, you chauvinistic twit!"

“How does that make me a chauvinistic twit?" he asked quizzically. "If you’re good at something, you should be the one to do it.”

“I’m not good at it!" she insisted. "If it weren’t for Harry’s help, you’d be eating a pickle and cheese sandwich for lunch.”

“All right, then he can cook the meals from now on. See? That's not chauvinistic.”

She and Ron were still bickering good naturedly at the counter when Harry came back into the room. Evidently, he'd made his decision as he walked straight up to Ron. Grabbing him by the ears, Harry pulled him down to his mouth and kissed him, passionately. Ron let out a snort of startled surprise at Harry's unexpected boldness. His plate was balanced precariously in his left hand, and his fork dangled from the fingers of his right while Harry snogged him soundly. To her amazement, he didn’t fling them away to pull Harry against him or take him straight to the floor. He must be awfully hungry, she thought, or he really did think  the meal was that tasty.

"I've reconsidered. You're not a prick," Harry declared when he'd finally released Ron.

"Well... uh... that's good then, since Hermione's started calling me names now, too," Ron responded breathlessly, looking dazed from Harry's kiss. "But you know, Harry, friends don't generally show their appreciation, or apologize, or give forgiveness, or whatever by snogging each other senseless."

"Shut up," Harry replied, flushing slightly with embarrassment. "I never said we had to be one or the other."

"I know. I'm just trying to prove to you that I can be, and want to be, both."

 

* * *

 

Ron did in fact clean up the dishes with Harry's help while she took the robes he'd brought down from the attic earlier and attempted to remove about a century's worth of dust from the moth eaten fibers so she could get a good look at them. They had potential, she decided, but they were in desperate need of laundering and repair. They smelled as if Buckbeak had used them for a pallet when he'd been hiding out here with Sirius while on the run from the Ministry. If the ancient garments didn't disintegrate in the wash, she might be able to do something with them.

When they'd settled in the drawing room, Ron tried to engage Harry in a game of chess, to help pass the time, but it was soon apparent that it couldn't hold his interest long enough to focus. His inability to concentrate meant that Ron annihilated him even more rapidly than usual. The strain of waiting for word from Ron's family was driving Harry to insanity. He was a ball of nervous energy. Anxiety kept him from settling to anything else she or Ron suggested, resorting to pacing the length of the room until she thought he'd wear a hole in the already thread-bare carpet. When he did sit down, he was nearly vibrating in his chair, checking his watch every five minutes and then glaring at it furiously as if it were making the time go by deliberately slowly. It set her nerves on edge, too, just watching him.

Finally, the message arrived. Errol came soaring into the room to her exclamation of surprised relief. The owl circled once before landing on Ron's knee. Sticking out his leg, he hooted feebly as Ron stroked his plumage and steadied him with his hand. With the other, he hastily untied the note attached to his leg.

"Why the hell didn't he just send a Patronus message?" Ron asked in exasperation. "We've been waiting for ages."

"Nevermind that!" Harry cried, his face torn between dread and eagerness as his hands trembled. "What does it say?"

Ron smoothed the note flat against his knee, still holding the elderly owl steady on his other. "Everything set. See you all at six, Arthur." He looked up, smiling widely. "Guess that's it then. We're going!"

Harry sank to his knees. He looked both petrified and relieved as he let out a long, shuddering, breath.

With still hours to go until dusk, however, time seemed to continue to crawl by, and Harry's earlier excess of nervous energy started to ebb away. Gradually, he began to draw into himself again, becoming motionless and morose. It was a stark difference from the way he'd been practically bouncing off the walls earlier. Hermione didn't know if it was his fear of what might happen once there, or apprehension about coming face to face with Arthur and the twins again after having last seen them at Ron's disastrous birthday party that was causing the reaction. She only knew it was contagious. By the time Ron went to collect the brooms and their coats, her own anxiety was running high again, and the mood in the room had grown somber.

When they'd Apparated into the shadow of the small storage shed behind the Burrow, the first things Hermione saw were the identical grinning faces of Fred and George. They were standing under the cover of the nearest tree with their wands held casually at their sides. Mr. Weasley and Bill stood close behind them. Apparently, she, Harry and Ron were the last to arrive, or perhaps, the others had been here since Ron left them hours ago getting things ready.

"Right, then," Arthur called cheerfully, clapping his hands and rubbing them together briskly as he pushed past the twins and strolled up to them. "Everyone here? Everyone who they claim to be?"

"Uh..." Hermione said uncertainly, still gripping her wand tightly while Harry stood stiffly beside her.

"Good, then we can dispense with this silly question and answer nonsense. I always have the most dreadful time thinking up new questions to ask."

"Mr. Weasley?" she interrupted tentatively. "Perhaps we should. Just to be safe."

"Oh," he said in some surprise. "All right, then. Let me think." Stroking his chin thoughtfully while he bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, he cast his mind around for a suitable question while she waited nervously.

"That parchment was spelled for Ron's eyes only," Bill said in exasperation. "I performed the charm myself. Who else would they be? It's not like this has been a long standing engagement or anything. It was decided only hours ago."

"Exactly. And we don't have long before it'll be too dark to see," George added. "So get a move on."

"I know!" Fred offered helpfully. "Ask Ron why he was such a git to us when we showed up at his birthday party. With an expensive gift, mind. Or why none of them bothered to turn up when George and I had our twentieth. Oh, and ask Harry if he'll do those same wicked cool magic tricks he did then at _our_ next party!"

"Shut up, Fred. You stupid prat," Ron shot back.

Beside her, Harry's shoulders shook with silent laughter, and his wand hand relaxed. The tension leaving him suddenly at the absurdity of the barbed exchange.

"I've got it!" Arthur exclaimed. "Where did you three go when you left Fred and George's shop under Harry's cloak the summer before you’re last year at school?"

"We followed Draco Malfoy down Knockturn Alley," Hermione promptly supplied. “To see what he was up to.”

"Correct!" Arthur confirmed happily. "Or at least that's where you eventually told me you’d gone. Now it's your turn. Ask me a question."

"For the love of..." George howled, throwing up his hands in frustration. "They know it's us... we know it's them. At this rate, we'll still be standing here asking each other questions at midnight."

"Hush, George," his father admonished.

"It's all right, Mr. Weasley," Harry interceded, his hoarse voice straining for composure. "I think we're good."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I trust you're who you say you are. I don't think anyone could’ve faked that."

"All right. Then let _me_ ask another question," he responded in sudden seriousness, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "How are you, son?"

"I'm good, Mr. Weasley. Feeling much better," Harry answered shyly.

“And you two? Ron, Hermione?” he asked then, alleviating Harry's discomfiture as he turned to them.

“We’re fine, Mr. Weasley.”

“Yeah, no worries, Dad.”

"Wonderful! I'm delighted to hear it. Of course, we’ve been keeping tabs on you three, but Molly would have my hide if I didn't make sure. She frets, you know."

"I'm surprised she didn't insist on coming to see for herself," Harry replied.

"Actually..." Arthur hesitated, looking suddenly guilty. "To be honest, Harry, she doesn't know we've gone. She and Ginny made plans to visit the Lupin's to see their new addition almost the instant Bill arrived today with the news. They left loaded down with food, and knitted baby clothes and blankets. Well, you know how she is," he added with a shrug of his shoulders. "I don't expect they'll be back for several more hours."

"And if they're back early?" Ron questioned.

"Well. We will just have to deal with that eventuality if it arises.”

"Better to get forgiven than get permission?" Ron suggested dryly as Harry tried to suppress a snort of amusement.

"Precisely, Ron. Precisely," Arthur agreed, looking pleased with his youngest son's astuteness.

"Hmm," Hermione huffed irritably, realizing that Ron had employed that exact strategy today when setting this up. She’d have to have a word with him about that.

"If we've dispensed with the formalities?" Fred urged. "Let's play some Quidditch!"

“Wait,” Mr. Weasley insisted, holding up his hand to forestall Ron when he'd taken an enthusiastic step forward. “First, I need to give you these, and tell you how they work. I’ll explain the rest of the enchantments on the way to the pitch.”

Rummaging around in his pocket for a moment, he finally produced three small, flat, circular disks, like coins, but with holes in the center. They were washers, Hermione realized in some confusion.

“You can’t get through the barrier without one of these, you see? But in addition to that, they’re also a tracking tool in the event that something happens and we get separated,” he explained as he passed them out. “Press your thumb against it to spell it to you.”

Hermione did as he instructed. Beside her, the boys did likewise. The disk immediately grew warm against her thumb, the metal glowing briefly orange as the spell activated.

“There we go. Now, if any of us should get separated or lost, injured or incapacitated, the rest should be able to locate them. We’ve used a variation on the Four-Point spell for this. Let me demonstrate.” Laying his wand flat in the palm of his hand, Mr. Weasley said clearly, “Point Me, Bill!” The wand immediately spun in his hand, the tip pointing behind him to where Bill was standing.

“That’s really very clever, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione told him sincerely, flipping the dull, gray washer over in her hands in admiration before slipping it into the pocket of her jeans.

“Bill’s idea,” he said dismissively as he turned to lead them to the others.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Bill said proudly. “Told you I wasn’t totally useless.”

"That's not what Fleur says," George teased.

“Hullo, Hermione, Harry," Fred greeted them cheerfully before cutting his eyes to Ron and adding scornfully, "brother mine.” Then he slapped Harry on the back before throwing an arm around his shoulders companionably as they turned and headed for the clearing. “How’s it hangin’ then? Still curved slightly to the right, if I'm remembering it correctly from the Polyjuice potion?”

“Oh, Christ,” Harry groaned, looking mortified.

“No wonder you still had both your ears when we got back here, Fred,” George interjected. “You never said it was because you had your head stuffed down the front of your trousers to get a look at the Chosen One's goods.”

“And you might not have lost yours if you’d spent more time defending yourself with your wand instead of using it as a measuring stick.”

“Would you two leave him alone?” Ron barked threateningly, shoving George in the back so he stumbled on the uneven ground.

“What? We’re just asking after his well-being,” Fred explained innocently. “It’s only polite, and Mum frets, you know.”

"Not about that, I hope," Harry mumbled in embarrassment, the back of his neck deeply red.

“So, Harry, can you still make the whole room rattle when you’re mad?”

“Knock it off! Both of you!”

“Probably,” Harry admitted. “But I’m not doing it at your next party.”

“You sure? There’s good money in it for you.”

“No thanks.”

“All right. Then how about you fill us in on what’s been going on. A little birdie told us you three have been making plans recently.”

“A little birdie, huh? Does this songbird have a fang earring and wear his hair in a ponytail?” Harry asked wryly.

“Maybe,” George hedged.

Ahead of them, Hermione saw Bill’s shoulders hunch around his ears guiltily.

"So what do you say, Harry?"

“Sorry, boys. Not gonna happen,” Harry told them firmly.

“We can help, you know,” Fred argued.

“Not this time.”

“That’s what we thought you'd say. Right, George?”

“Right. So, we thought we’d help out by bringing you some fresh supplies from Weasley’s Wizard Weezes.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, George produced a tiny package, magically shrunk, and dropped it into Harry’s hand.

“Thanks, guys,” Harry said gratefully as they stepped through the magical barrier and onto the grassy clearing.

The moment Mr. Weasley finished explaining the boundaries and the magical protection around the make-shift pitch and then given the go ahead, Harry kicked off. He shot straight up from the ground going full out, letting out a whoop of delight as he got the feel of the borrowed broom. Zooming upwards to a dizzying height, he leveled off finally, likely near the upmost limit of the shield, then turned the handle downward and dove, pressing himself flat to the broom as he shot towards the ground again.

Hermione covered her eyes, feeling slightly faint with vertigo when he pulled up at the last minute and spun skyward again, his arms thrown out wide this time, spiraling into the air as he clamped the broom between his knees to remain seated.

"Merlin, he's good!" Bill exclaimed beside her. "Charlie told me about seeing him in the Tri-Wizard Tournament against that Horntail. He said it was some of the best flying he'd ever seen. I believe him now. Harry looks like a bird up there."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding her head. And she did. Harry was like some exotic bird of prey. Rare and beautiful. Wild and untamed to whom the most unimaginable cruelty was to be locked in a cage. "I've always thought so, too. But you've seen him fly before, Bill... right here. You've played against him."

"Yeah, but he was just messing about then. I've never seen him fly with that kind of intensity before. Look at him," he said in admiration, pointing at Harry, who was now making laps around the pitch at an incredible speed, weaving in and out of the others. "That's my damned broom. It has a pretty significant drag. You have to fight it a bit to steer, but he's barely even touching the handle... like it's an extension of his body or something."

"It's been like that since the first time he ever rode a broom," she explained. "Well, actually, I say that, but I suppose it’s the first time I ever saw him or he ever remembers being on one. A few months back, he found a picture of himself as a baby, riding on a little toy one. He didn’t look much like a bird then, though, more like a little green-eyed cherub."

"Harry!" Ron shouted. "You warmed up and ready to play?"

Nodding, Harry banked hard and flew back down to meet them, looping Ron once effortlessly in a graceful arc before taking his place across from him. He, Ron, Fred, and George faced off against each other around a wide no-man's-land circle in the center of the pitch directly over the Quaffle that lay on the ground beneath them.

"That's my cue," Bill said, dismissing her then and running forward. Scooping up the red ball, he held it under his arm as he stared up at the four men hovering above him. "All right. Two-on-two. No Keepers, no Beaters, no Seekers, and no rules. With that being said—"

"Hear that, Ronnykins? No rules. No mummy to run to and tell on us when we aren't being fair!" Fred taunted.

"I don't run and tell,” Ron argued indignantly. “I've kept my mouth shut plenty of times. Did I tell her and Dad when you were blackmailing Ludo Bagman? No. Did I tell when you were testing your products at Hogwarts on first years, or when you two put beetles in Bill's soup in Egypt? No, I didn't."

"Wait... When you what?" Bill spluttered.

"Well, you have now, you git!" George said, outraged.

"What the hell, Fred?" Bill shouted furiously.

"What? It wasn't me, it was George!"

"Was not."

"But you told on me when I accidentally transfigured your teddy bear into a spider," Fred accused, continuing the argument with Ron.

"Yeah, and when we gave you that acid pop by accident," George added.

"Neither of those was an accident!" Ron shouted, heatedly. "That little prank scarred me for life, you bloody bastard. I’ve been terrified of spiders ever since. And you burned a whole in my tongue with that sweet you talked me into eating. I had to go to St. Mungo's!"

"Boys! Enough!" Mr. Weasley called impatiently.

"Right," Bill said, glaring up at the twins. "As I was saying. There are no rules, so play nice. Even though Dad’s already explained that no one can get in without a token and that there are warning spells that will alert us if anyone gets anywhere near this place, the three of us will be walking the perimeter just to be safe. So we're not keeping score. You play until you wear yourselves out or it gets so dark you're flying into each other and Dad makes us quit. Understand?"

All four of them responded in the affirmative.

"Then off you go," Bill shouted, throwing the oddly shaped ball into the air.

Above her, bodies crashed together in a violent scramble for the Quaffle. There were several grunts and the explosion of breath as the mass of limbs struggled to gain possession from one another. Finally, someone broke free of the pack. Hermione thought it must be one of the twins. They had red hair in any case, so she was fairly certain it wasn’t Harry. The rest tore after him, either shouting encouragement or instructions to their partner.

It was Quidditch like she’d never seen it played before. Well, in actuality, it wasn’t Quidditch at all. It was more accurately described as a fairly brutal game of keep-away. With no rules, there was a rather liberal amount of what would be considered cheating going on if this were a regulation game; cobbing, all manner of broom tampering, including blurting and blagging, along with a vigorous exchanging of verbal intimidation. It was unlike any of the casual games she’d ever seen them take part in over the summer holidays either. It had been so long since any of them had been given the chance to play that they were like a bunch of rabid animals broken loose from their restraints.

She stood and watched for awhile until her neck grew too sore to keep her head tilted up at that angle, but it was long enough to see both sides score at least once. Then she set off around the perimeter in the opposite direction of Mr. Weasley. Wand up and at the ready, she peered through the slight cloudiness of the magical shield that protected and concealed them and into the orchard that surrounded the clearing. She studied the dark spaces that clung to the trees for unusual, sinister shapes between frequent upward glances at the chaos going on above her. This was less in an effort to keep track of the game, and more an act of self preservation in the rather likely event that one of them got knocked off their broom and came hurling down from the sky to land on top of her.

“Hey! That’s not fair! You can’t use wands,” Ron bellowed sometime later after she'd made a dozen or more laps around the perimeter.

Hermione stopped and look skyward again.

“Quit whining, little brother. No rules, remember?” Fred called back gleefully as he zoomed off in the other direction.

“No wands, Fred,” Mr. Weasley said in sharp rebuke. “You’ll put someone’s eye out.”

“Tattletale!”

“Oh yeah? Do you want to see unfair? Harry doesn’t even need a wand, do you, Harry? Summon that ball from him like you did that spatula from Hermione today and wipe that fucking smirk off his face!”

“Language, Ron!” Arthur warned.

“Sorry,” Ron grumbled in apology.

"Hermione? Do you let him kiss you with that filthy mouth?" one of the twins asked her, sounding scandalized.

"Every chance I get," she replied, smiling at their groans of disgust. "But who told you I'm snogging Ron in the first place?"

"A little birdie," one of them replied.

"Damn it, Bill! Bit of a gossip monger aren't you? What? Do you run over there every night after we leave to give everyone the latest scoop over Mum's tea and biscuits?" Ron snarled irritably. "The last thing I need is you giving these two any more ammunition against me."

Bill made no effort to apologize or reply, and instead, continued his circuit of the pitch as if he hadn't heard while George pulled faces at Ron as he flew past.

"Do it, Harry. Show them what you can do," Ron urged Harry. "That ought to give them something to talk about on Potterwatch besides my love life or estimates on the size of your prick."

"Ron!" Hermione, and Mr. Weasley both shouted in unison.

"What?" Ron bellowed. "Fred and George can discuss it all they want with impunity, but I can't?"

"For Christ sake! Can we all please stop discussing my manhood?" Harry barked in irritation. "And I'm not doing that, Ron," he added. "If you want the Quaffle, you're just going to have to take it from him."

"Some friend you are. Whose side are you on anyway?"

"George is right. You are a whiny git," Harry complained, but Hermione could still hear amusement in his voice. "I think I'd rather have Blabber-mouth Bill as a partner!"

Near her, Hermione saw Bill fling his arms up in exasperation.

"At least _he_ might be able to score a goal," Harry added sardonically as Bill saluted him with a middle finger.

"Bill said we're not keeping score," Ron said defensively.

"I said _we're_ not keeping score, Ron," Bill corrected, waving his hand around to encompass the three of them still on the ground. "You all can do whatever you like as long as it doesn't involve using foul language or poking each other in the eye with wands, apparently. And lay off me, all right? I'm just doing my job as the eldest brother. See if I ever tell any of you worthless sods anything again."

"Neither of you is going to score anymore goals if you don't stop bickering," Fred taunted. "You two sound like an old married couple, you know that?"

The Quaffle whizzed by Ron's left ear as he threw it to George, who blew Ron a kiss before tucking the ball under his arm and turning for the goal. Speeding forward, Harry grabbed George by the back of his shirt, nearly unseating them both and making George drop the Quaffle when he was forced to cling onto his broom with both hands.

"Catch that!" Harry gasped.

"Get off, you specky git!" George growled, yanking furiously on his shirt to free himself while Harry struggled to contain him, both of them grunting with effort and snorting with laughter as they grappled together while Ron scored, crowing in triumph.

“Thirty more minutes, boys," Mr. Weasley called up to them.

They all whined at this pronouncement. Pleading arguments and unsuccessful negotiations followed.

"Honestly," Hermione intoned under her breath and turned once again back towards the woods as Bill lapped her, having made a circuit while she watched the game progress.

It was a good deal longer than thirty minutes later when Mr. Weasley finally called a halt to the game. Darkness had fallen almost completely so that the shadows had all grown together and only the outline of the trees was still visible, slightly denser than the sky around them. She'd given up searching the woods for intruders and now searched the sky for the dark shapes still flying above her, silhouetted against the weak moonlight, as they reluctantly headed for the ground one by one.

She knew that Ron and Harry wouldn't agree, and tell her in condescending tones that she just didn't understand about Quidditch again, but she felt a bit relieved that it was finally over and that they had emerged safely. At least as far as she could tell. Neither was limping or sporting a black eye as they approached her, brooms slung over their shoulders.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Weasley," Harry said earnestly.

"It was my pleasure, Harry. A very welcome distraction."

"Really, I know this was a huge undertaking. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you've done. I'll never forget this."

"Nor will I. Seeing you boys play tonight is something I will remember fondly forever. It was worth the effort and the tongue lashing I'll likely receive from Molly and Ginny if they've beaten us home. It's been a long time since any of us have let off a little steam and had a laugh. Too long." He hugged Harry then. Pulling him tightly against him and patting him firmly on the back before releasing him and hugging her and Ron in turn. "You three don't be strangers." he told Ron determinedly, cupping his youngest son's face. "I know you're all busy doing things you can't tell us about, but you could visit once in awhile or drop us a note to let us know you're safe. You're mother—"

"She frets," Ron supplied, grinning. "Yeah, I know. We'll try, Dad. Really. Give her my love, okay? And Ginny."

"I will, son," Arthur agreed, smoothing Ron's sweat damp hair affectionately. "You three head on out. The rest of us will dismantle these charms before we go."

"See you all tomorrow?" Bill asked.

"Of course," Ron confirmed, handing him back the borrowed brooms before turning to the twins. "Fred, George, you cheating bastards. It was a good game."

"Language, Ron," George teased, punching him good naturedly in the shoulder.

"That's as gracious as our little brother can be in defeat, George," Fred explained. "Losing sticks in his craw."

"In your dreams you won!" Ron growled as he grabbed Hermione's hand unexpectedly and pulled her to him before kissing her sloppily for their benefit, bending her backwards in his arms.

"Night," Harry said over the retching noises of the twins, his voice tight with embarrassment, shoving the side of Ron's face so they broke apart.

"Be safe," Fred and George called in unison as Hermione grabbed Harry's hand and turned on the spot.

Both of them looked thoroughly worn out as they hung up their jackets and trudged up the stairs ahead of her. That had been the point of this whole excursion, to allow Harry to let off a little steam. So mission accomplished, she supposed.

In the light of the stairwell, she could see scratches on both their hands. Searching for the Dittany, she dug around in her bag when they flopped down on the couch in the drawing room, their cheeks and lips red from windburn and their hair wild and damp with sweat.

"Oh, God. I'm going to be so sore tomorrow." Ron complained. "My arms already feel like jelly." He held out his rubbery appendages to Hermione at her prompting while she rolled her eyes at his whining and dabbed the potion over the small cuts to heal them.

"The two of you look like you've spent the last few hours locked in a trunk with an angry Crookshanks, and neither of you are going to be able to even lift your arms tomorrow, you know. So, was it worth it?" she asked, though she already knew the answer judging by the identical gleam in their eyes and the smiles on their faces.

"Hell yes," Ron confessed as Harry nodded in agreement. "I haven't had that much fun since... well, I don't know when."

"I'm good," Harry said when she'd reached for his arms that he had tucked up against his body.

"Don't be ridiculous," she argued. "It will only take a second." She tugged on his reluctant limb and Harry finally relinquished it, grimacing slightly when she touched his hand. "Harry?" she questioned sharply. "Is your finger broken?"

The middle finger on his right hand was bent, curled into his palm and it was swollen and purple around the knuckle.

"No," he denied, jerking as she tried to straighten it. "I think it's just jammed."

"Bad luck, mate," Ron said, wincing in sympathy.

"For heaven's sake, Harry! You could have said something."

"I didn't want to stop playing," he explained as she massaged the digit and knuckle, feeling for a break.

"Well you could've stopped long enough for someone to heal it at least, or fixed it yourself," she admonished. "Now it's so swollen I can't tell if it's broken or not."

"It's not that bad," Harry argued as she pulled out her wand.

" _Episky_ ," she intoned resignedly, tapping her wand against the damaged finger.

Harry grunted softly when the cartilage shifted and the finger straightened, gritting his teeth against the fresh rush of pain.

"I can't really do anything about the swelling, you know, besides put some ice on it, but you still probably won't be able to bend it for days. If you'd healed it straight away, it would've been fine. Instead, judging by the state it's in, it looks as if you let it go on for hours."

"Happened as soon as Bill tossed the Quaffle that first time," Harry confirmed sheepishly. "Otherwise I'd probably have scored a lot more goals."

"Idiot," Hermione growled, shaking her head resignedly before healing the scratches on his other hand.

"Is that the excuse you're going with for your abysmal performance tonight?" Ron asked, smirking at Harry.

"Yup. _I_ was playing left handed after all, and steering with a damaged right. My aim was crap, yet I still managed to score more goals than you. So what's your excuse? Did you get a splinter or something? Maybe a butt cramp?"

Ron started laughing then. "Yeah, my left cheek was spasming like crazy, and I had a splinter the size of my thumb jammed into my thigh," he lied. "So, Harry Potter, the great Quidditch player, is ambidextrous eh? Can you write with your left hand as well?"

"God, no. It's not even legible."

"So, about the same as with your right hand then?"

"Pretty much," Harry agreed ruefully. "I can write with my feet, though."

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked with a snort of amusement. "You can't be serious."

"Well, not with a quill or anything small like that. It has to be a pretty thick marker or maybe a piece of chalk or something that I can pinch between my toes. What?" he asked defensively at their incredulous looks.

"Well, that's a really useful skill, I'm sure," Ron replied mordantly. "You know I'm going to make you prove it, right?"

"Under what circumstances did it even occur to you to try to hone that particular talent, Harry?" she questioned in amazement.

"You'd be surprised at the things you can think up to entertain yourself when you spend most of your time locked in a cupboard."

The smiles faded from both hers and Ron's faces at that statement.

"I really hate your relatives, Harry," Ron finally muttered angrily.

Harry merely shrugged dismissively before changing the subject. "So, did you see that one I scored that sailed right through Fred's hands?"

Ron nodded, the grin reappearing on his face again, and Hermione knew that she was in for another endless discussion about Quidditch where they enthusiastically described a play by play breakdown of the match as if they all hadn't been there to see it. She got up then to head down to the kitchen, intending to get a bag of ice for Harry's hand and make some tea because it looked like they were in for a late night. Yet Harry grew suddenly serious again.

"Ron, this really was the best night. I don't know how to thank you for setting this up and for insisting on going when I started freaking out."

"I told you everything would be fine," Ron replied smugly, before slapping Harry's knee, companionably. "I just hope it did you some good."

Harry nodded, still staring hard at Ron. "I uh... I think I'm just going to grab a quick shower," he announced somewhat nervously before licking his chapped lips self consciously. He got to his feet then, hesitating a moment before grabbing her bag off the table and heading to the bathroom.

Hermione smiled at his retreating back before turning back to Ron, eyebrow raised.

"What?" he demanded at her quizzical look.

"Nothing," she answered, waving her hand dismissively as she, too, headed out of the room.

She returned upstairs with the tea and ice pack before Harry had finished his shower, so she took his place on the couch and kicked off her shoes before placed her feet in Ron's lap.

"You two are probably going to be saddle sore tomorrow, but at least you had fun getting into that state. I on the other hand, spent the evening in a much less pleasurable pursuit. My feet are throbbing," she complained while blowing on her steaming mug of tea and wiggling her toes. "I must have made that circuit around the pitch fifty times tonight."

"And I truly appreciate it, luv," he replied, cupping her heal and rubbing his thumb firmly into her arch. "It sure made me, and Harry, too, feel safer knowing you were keeping an eye out. Having the three of you there was critical to allowing him to relax enough to enjoy himself tonight. Without you there, it would have been a wasted effort, you know?"

Feeling mollified by his praise, Hermione moaned, leaning her head against the back of the couch and closing her eyes in pleasure as he continued to soothe her aching feet. "That feels really good, Ron," she said on a sigh after a few relaxing minutes.

"It would probably feel better if I put that minty cream on your feet, but Harry has your bag with him in the loo."

As if on cue, Harry came back into the room at that moment, clutching her bag. He wore only a pair of pajama bottoms, his chest bare and hair towel dried, but not combed. His skin pink from the shower and his jaw shadowed with stubble as he hadn't shaved today gave him that roguish quality that she found so attractive on him.

"Come here," she said, pulling her feet out of Ron's lap when Harry hovered at the door. Sitting up, she placed her mug on the table and picked up the ice pack. Scooting to the edge of the couch, she patted the space beside her in invitation as Ron got up.

She expected him to meet Harry, to pull him into an embrace or take him by the ears as Harry had done to him earlier today before kissing him thoroughly. But Ron merely picked up the remaining two mugs before handing one to Harry. Then he took a seat in the chair across from her. Hermione stared at him in some surprise, Harry uncertainly before dropping her bag back onto the table and sitting beside her as directed. He had used the balm on himself she realized as the crisp smell of the mint-infused ointment hit her nostrils, but it wasn't overpowering. That clean smell of soap as well as his natural scent that always reminded her of rain clung to him too.

"Well, I'm pretty sure we can scrounge up some parchment, but I don't know what we're going to use for a writing utensil big enough to hold between your toes, Harry," Ron said with a smirk, easing the awkwardness in the room. "Maybe Hermione can transfigure or conjure up something so you can demonstrate this foot writing feat."

"It's no big deal," Harry said, rolling his eyes and grinning sheepishly as he relaxed his shoulders. "I didn't say I was good at it or anything. Only that I could."

"Yeah, but I have to see it to believe it."

"Maybe having nimble feet is a rare ability some people possess like curling your tongue or being able to raise one eyebrow," Harry suggested then.

"Actually, neither of those two things is that rare," Hermione explained. "About sixty percent of the population can curl their tongues, and you can train your muscles to raise an eyebrow if you don't naturally have that ability."

"Of course, you would know that," Ron said with a chuckle.

"So can both of you curl your tongues then?" Harry asked.

"Yes," they both acknowledged.

"I can't," Harry confessed. "I've tried."

"Really?" Ron asked, looking surprised.

"Nope," Harry confirmed. "But I'm not demonstrating that tonight either. I'm completely beat, and I need some help putting that salve on this arm," he added, lifting his left arm. "This is the one that's going to be sore, but I can't rub it in with this hand," he explained, waving his damaged right hand.

Well, that explained why he was shirtless. She'd been somewhat surprised to see his entrance from the bathroom. Harry almost never went without a shirt. He was simply too modest to expose that much flesh voluntarily unless the situation called for it. And it was always the first article of clothing that went back on again afterwards. Even if he thought that tonight was going to be a situation that would require it, which she believed he clearly did, he'd still never made a statement to that effect in advance. She would attribute his shyness to his reluctance to display the worst of the scars that covered his body, but even before he'd suffered most of those scars, he was never to be found in any state besides fully dressed unless you counted the rare occasions when he was barefoot.

"Here," Hermione said, reaching for her bag and handing him the ice pack. "I'll do it for you, and you can sit there like a good boy and let this ice work on that swelling." She found the ointment and dropped her bag back on the table before unscrewing the lid.

Harry had leaned back against the couch with his mug of tea in his left hand and his right hand resting on his knee with the ice pack over it, but Hermione urged him upwards again with her elbow when she'd scooped up a generous amount of the salve in her fingers. Obediently, he sat up straight again at her silent command and sat still for her while she massaged it into his neck and shoulder, down his arm and over the right side of his chest. He even managed to shiver only slightly without dislodging the ice-pack when the skin on his arm pimpled with gooseflesh and his nipples hardened from the chill.

"There," she said, rubbing the remaining cream into the soles of her still aching feet. "That's the best I can do."

"Thank you," he said, flushing slightly at the husky quality of his voice. His eyes were heavy with arousal, but also tiredness when he looked at her before quickly looking away again and taking another sip of his tea.

"You're welcome, Harry," she responded before turning to Ron. "Do you want me to do yours?"

"Nah, I'll be fine," he replied casually, waving off the offer for help.

Hermione stared at him. He was acting out of character tonight, deliberately ignoring Harry's signals, or what passed for signals. Though he would not  initiate it, Harry was clearly indicating that he was willing to expend a little more energy tonight before bed, and neither she nor Ron were so obtuse as to not be aware of it. On any other night, Ron would have already had Harry underneath him on the couch, signals or no. And she didn't think it was that he was too tired tonight. Ron was never too tired for sex. The idea that he would pass on an opportunity to be intimate with Harry was simply absurd.

Still behaving as if nothing at all were amiss, Ron returned to the discussion of Quidditch and Harry joined him until fatigue had his eyes drooping. He couldn't have had more than a few hours of sleep last night. And while he'd managed a couple more this morning, it still wasn't enough to be considered restful. Yet he seemed reluctant to call it a night and head to bed, though she knew his body at least longed for sleep. Perhaps he feared a recurrence of the nightmare if he returned to his bed tonight. Whatever he'd dreamt had been terrifying enough to rattle him badly this morning. Even the suggestion of speaking about it had made him turn pale and then combative. All he would reveal was that what happened to them could have been much worse, which confirmed at least that it had been about what occurred in the Malfoy cellar. But what he'd dreamt could not possibly be worse than the reality of what they'd done to him. That realization had led her to surmise that the nightmare had been about them, about her and Ron.

Unfolding her legs, she patted her thigh in invitation while taking up the thread of the conversation. "So, let's discuss this forgiveness over permission strategy," she began, gently pulling on Harry's arm when he'd remained stubbornly vertical. "Is this something all the Weasley men learn at their father's knee or merely something your father learned during the course of his marriage to your mother?"

Smirking at Ron's unease, Harry finally gave in and lay down beside her. Once he'd shifted around on the couch for a bit to get comfortable, he positioned himself so that his right arm could lie flat against the cushions, allowing the icepack to continue its work to reduce the swelling on his hand. Hermione carded her fingers through his hair when he'd settled his head on her thigh, absently stroking the fringe off his forehead and circling loose strands around his ear while he sighed in contentment.

"You have met my mother, yeah?" Ron asked.

"I have, but if you think that strategy will work on me, you're in for a rude awakening. I'm on to you, Ronald Weasley."

"Think it will work on Griphook tomorrow?" Harry asked before yawning.

"Not in a million years," Ron answered morosely. "That little bastard is going to want to make our lives as miserable as possible for ditching him today."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that tomorrow, we're facing the prospect of a very long day of being shut in a room with an irate goblin."

"That's what I thought," Harry concurred. "Try not to murder him, would you, Ron?"

"I'll give it my best effort," Ron replied without enthusiasm. "Though it would solve our problem with the sword."

"Sword won't do us any good without a Horcrux to use it on."

"Maybe Hermione can hit him with a cheering charm straight off tomorrow," Ron suggested with a snort. "That'd be a laugh. Can you imagine Griphook cheerful? It's like trying to picture the twins not being complete gits."

"I'm not jinxing him, Ron."

"Well if you expect him to remain alive past lunch, you'd best hit me with one then, or give me that bottle of calming draught."

Harry smiled, and then closed his eyes, giving in to his desire for sleep at last. Still stroking him soothingly, Hermione watched the grin fade from his face as all his features slowly softened and he sank deeper, until his whole body was utterly relaxed and his breathing was deep and regular.

"So," she whispered once Harry was fully asleep. "What are you playing at, Ron?"

"What do you mean?" he asked innocently.

"You know what I mean. You're toying with Harry, and I want to know why."

"I'm not toying with him, 'Mione. I'm trying to be his friend. That's all."

"You're confusing him, Ron, and you know it. Any other night, you'd be all over him. He certainly expected it. Now he probably thinks you're mad at him or something."

"I'm not trying to confuse him, and I certainly don't want him to think I'm mad at him. I'm just trying to take a step back. Let him breathe, you know? That's what he said he wanted."

"Yes, but I don't think he meant for you to cut him off, Ron. You know as well as I do that he wanted you tonight."

"Did he really?" Ron questioned. "Or did he merely want to thank me for tonight by giving me what he thinks I want from him, as payment? To settle the debt or something."

"Well..." she said uncertainly. "He wants to please you, Ron."

"I don't want his gratitude, and I don't want him to give himself to me as a gift or something. I want him to want me as much as I want him. I want him to admit it, to show it and initiate it for once. I want him to be the one who asks for it. Just one time."

"Ron, I don't think he knows how," she explained.

"Of course he knows how. Everyone knows how. You're born with it, aren't you?"

"Perhaps. But if Harry was born with that instinct, he quickly learned after his parents died and he was left with his awful relatives not to expect it or ask for it from anyone, because I doubt they once showed him any affection, even as a baby. Imagine what that must have been like for him, how lonely he must have been. Loved and adored for the first year of his life, and then suddenly, some evil man takes all that away by killing his parents and trying to kill him. Then he's dumped on the doorstep of a new family to grow up unloved, treated like a pariah. He must have been so confused and frightened, surrounded by people that neglected and despised him. For heaven's sake, he'd smashed his finger tonight, and I don't think it even occurred to him to ask anyone to help him. He certainly didn't expect to receive any aid. It was probably a monumental task for him to ask me to put the ointment on him earlier and only resorted to it after he'd tried and failed to do it himself. Seeking affection, asking for it might have been a part of his nature once, Ron, but he's spent his formative years being utterly deprived of it. What happened to him in the dungeons was, without a doubt, the most extreme example of the cruelty he'd been taught to expect from people, but it was no accident that he was able to endure it for so long. You can't expect him to be able to reverse that level of conditioning overnight, if ever."

"So what you're saying is that I'm punishing him for it."

"I don't think you're punishing him exactly. I think you just expect too much from him sometimes, Ron."

"I thought this would be easier with him. I mean, I knew it wouldn't be effortless. He's Harry after all. I understand that he has a lot of things to overcome, that he's still badly damaged, but I just thought with us both being blokes and all that it would be less complicated somehow, that we'd have more common ground to work from once he'd finally accepted this, and we both got past the initial freak out of, 'Oh, my God! What the fuck is wrong with me? I want my best mate sexually,' you know?"

Hermione smiled at that. She understood that it must have been a terrifying awakening for the both of them. The fact that they did share a greater measure of commonality wouldn't have been an advantage initially, particularly with someone who'd been through the things Harry had. It had taken an profound amount of courage on Ron's part to act on those feelings.

"What is it about him that makes him so damned alluring?" Ron asked. "I can't understand why I'm so obsessed with him all the time, why I want to consume him, dominate him. I'm wildly jealous of anyone that even touches him or he shows any affection to, including Ginny and you. Hell, I was jealous of the damn broom he was fondling this morning for fuck's sake! It's not like that between you and me, Hermione. I'm in love with you. I want you constantly, and I'd kill anyone who even thought to take you from me, but I don't want to smother you or control you. There's a balance between us because I trust you completely and believe that the feeling is mutual. That's missing with him. I can see how much he wants us, how much he needs us, but he won't give in to it. He merely accepts it, but doesn't seek it. It drives me mad."

"He just absorbs it, doesn't he? Like a dry sponge. But he never expects it. He always looks so stunned when it's offered, so sadly grateful. There is something incredibly beautiful and painful about that. I think we're both drawn to those qualities in him. We've both witnessed the damage and want to heal it. I think every person he's ever met senses it in him and feels the same desire, the same pull to heal him. We all see the wealth of potential in him, the abundant capacity he has for love and are desperate to be the recipient of it. Whomever learns the secret to unlocking it will be handsomely rewarded, indeed, won't they?"

"It's not going to be us though, is it?" he asked resignedly.

"I don't know, Ron. I honestly don't. But if he decides tomorrow that this isn't what he wants, or a month from now... a year, would you regret any of it?"

He shook his head. "No," he said with a sigh. "Not a single moment."

"Nor I," she agreed. "Then all we can do is offer it, give him freely whatever he'll accept from us, for as long as he'll let us, and then allow him the freedom to choose."

"You're right," he said, getting to his feet and coming over to her. He stared at Harry for a moment and then leaned down to her and kissed her, cupping her face in his large hands. "I'm not giving up on him though, you understand. I don't think I could if I wanted to. But even if it turns out it's not us he wants, we'll still have each other, won't we?"

"Yes," she agreed, smiling up at him, feeling suddenly tearful as if they'd made a solemn pact. "Always."

"I love you," he whispered, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Come to bed with me so I can show you."

Gesturing down at Harry helplessly, she said, "I'll wake him if I try to scoot out from under him, and he's resting so peacefully."

"So are you planning to sit there all night like that?" Ron asked in amusement.

"Well, no. I don't suppose so. I just hate to disturb him. He needs to sleep, Ron."

"He isn't, is he?"

"No. He told me as much the other night, and I think he was reluctant to return there tonight after his dream last night. He'd deny it of course if we asked and insist on sleeping in there if we wake him, but I don't think he'll actually get any rest. It's wearing him down."

"Right," Ron said decisively. "Let's try and fix that then."

"How do you plan to do that? He won't agree to move back in with us, Ron. I've already pleaded with him to."

"Maybe you're not asking the right way, or offering the right incentive," he whispered teasingly, grinning at her look of indignation. "Being a bloke like him still has some advantages here, you know."

"Oh really?" she said skeptically, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "Let's see your effort, then."

"It's _LeviOsa_ , not _LevioSA_ ," he mocked her playfully, pulling a face at her outraged expression. "Watch and learn," he advised confidently before adding under his breath, "God this is going to be embarrassing if it doesn't work."

Kneeling down beside the couch next to Harry, Ron slid his fingers into Harry's hair, stroking his cheek with his thumb to rouse him.

"Hey," Ron called softly to Harry when his eyes blinked open.

"Hey," Harry mumbled sleepily.

"It's late, and I'm trying to talk Hermione into coming to bed with me, but you're using her for a pillow," Ron explained.

"Oh... 'm sorry," Harry apologized, still disoriented with sleep as he looked up at her through the lenses of his glasses which sat crookedly on his nose.

"I would've conjured you a real pillow if I thought I could make the trade without waking you. But then I decided that I wanted to wake you anyway," Ron added before leaning down to kiss Harry.

However sleep clouded his brain might have been, it didn't stop Harry from reacting when Ron's lips made contact with his own. His left hand came up to grip the back of Ron's head, and he opened his mouth almost immediately, granting access to Ron's questing tongue. As the kiss intensified, his fingers curled in Ron's hair, holding Ron against him while his body arched under him.

"I thought you said that this wasn't what friends do," Harry murmured softly though his labored breathing as he stared up at Ron when they broke apart. His eyes were red rimmed and still heavy with drowsiness. Yet Hermione thought there was also relief there in his gaze, making her certain that Harry had been worried tonight that Ron was upset with him.

"They do in this house," Ron growled in answer.

Harry grunted in amusement which turned into a groan when Ron ran his thumb along Harry's lower lip before sliding the digit between his teeth and into his mouth. Staring down at him, Ron brushed the tip of Harry's tongue once with the pad of his finger before pressing down slightly to encourage him to open his parted lips wider. Swiping his thumb tantalizingly across Harry's lip again so that it glistened with his own saliva when he retracted it, Ron leaned down again and molded his mouth against Harry's once more.

Harry met him greedily. He was moaning desperately by the time Ron moved to his neck and began nibbling at his throat, flicking Harry's earlobe with his tongue before pulling it between his teeth.

"Do you want me, Harry?" he asked, whispering into Harry's ear which made Harry shudder and clench his jaw.

"Yes," Harry hissed, his eyes darting up to meet hers again when he tilted his head back to give Ron more access to his neck. They held hers while Ron's hand slid over his bare chest as it traveled slowly down to stroke him through his pajama bottoms, making her a part of this though she hadn't touched him, refusing to interfere in Ron's plan or help him along in any way. It was broken then when Harry bit his lips and closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose as the muscles in his stomach tightened when Ron's hand closed around his erection.

"That's good," Ron murmured seductively, pulling back to stare down at Harry again. "Then, I'd really like for you to come to bed with us tonight. In Sirius' room. I'm not asking for a permanent move," Ron added when Harry's eyes narrowed warily and he frowned slightly. "I just want you in my bed tonight. Would that be all right?"

"Yeah... okay," Harry quietly agreed after a moment of consideration, nodding his head at the terms of agreement.

Well, I'll be damned! Hermione thought in grudging admiration as Ron glanced up at her quickly and smiled. Getting to his feet, he removed the rapidly melting ice-pack from Harry's hand and dropped it on the table before reaching down and pulling Harry to his feet. Then he quickly turned and led the way up to Sirius' room.

Harry grasped her by the hand, and they followed Ron, but he hesitated at the threshold of the bedroom, seeming suddenly to be second guessing his decision. Hermione understood. There was something strange about the sight of this familiar space. It had been weeks since they'd last slept here. The room held memories, both good and bad for them all. Sensing Harry's unease, Ron gripped him by the elbow, pulling him into the room and into his arms. Hermione stepped past them, moving to the bed where she sat down facing them and began undressing. Not that either of them noticed. She didn't mind, however. Ron hadn't won yet. Harry needed more persuading to overcome his apprehension. Getting him in the room and getting him to stay there were two very different things. But while she would have used soothing words of encouragement to attempt to coax him into bed instead of waggling her arse as enticement, Ron returned to the method he'd employed so successfully earlier to override Harry's objections.

Running his hands down Harry's back and into the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms at his hips, Ron didn't allow Harry the chance to change his mind. He took them straight to the floor in one swift motion, stripping his intended lover bare in a matter of seconds. Harry gasped in surprise, Hermione in grudging approval as Ron straightened back up.

Harry stood on the balls of his feet, the muscles in his calves bunching as Ron gripped him by the arse with both hands then, pulling Harry up to his own height as he pressed their hips together and reclaimed his mouth. Something about Harry's smaller size, him standing on tip-toes to be eye level with Ron, naked and exposed while Ron remained fully clothed made her tremble with arousal.

Part of her fascination was simply the witnessing of something so intimate between two people, but a larger part was in the still shocking novelty that the act was being committed by two men. Men that she loved. The image of them together was so damned erotic. Their bodies were just so foreign to her own. There was almost no softness in them. They were coarse hair covering scarred and freckled skin, pulled taut over bone and tendon and muscle. They were blunt edges and hard planes, reflected in the sharp angle of Ron's nose and the straight line of Harry's jaw while they kissed.

But mostly the attraction was in the way they engaged each other when their desires consumed them. Unlike how they touched her, there was very little gentleness in their interaction together. In fact, their foreplay was a struggle for dominance, a battle for control. The part she loved witnessing the most, though, was the moment when Harry finally yielded, surrendering himself to Ron. It was a foregone conclusion, but fighting against it aroused Harry. She suspected he also knew it aroused Ron just as much, granting him a rush of heady control to see Harry submit. But what he might not be as aware of was that when the moment arrived, and Harry relented, it always made her pulse pound, too, filling her with a potent aching need.

Harry certainly had the capacity to prevail, to have Ron on his knees and begging, but he never did. Outside of the bedroom, Harry might command control, but when it came to sex, he wanted to relinquish it entirely. It was the only time he could give up the mantle and the titles, relieving himself of the burdens of leadership he bore. Here, he wanted to be told what to do. He didn't want to think, or take any responsibility of himself or them. For a little while, in this setting, he could let go of all of it, hand over all his power and place himself completely in their hands. It took an amazing amount of courage and faith to make himself that vulnerable to them. Yet he did it. Over and over.

Sensing victory at last, Ron turned Harry then, molding himself to Harry's back as he kissed along his neck and up to his ear. An arm around Harry's chest, he held him braced against him as his other hand reached down to wrap his fingers around Harry's shaft, claiming jealous ownership of the organ which had been the subject of so much teasing discussion tonight between himself and his brothers.

"Oh, God," Harry moaned, his eyes raking over her nude form as she sat watching them from the bed before locking on hers again when Ron gave him a firm stroke. He was gasping in pleasure. Lifting his arm to grip the back of Ron's head with his undamaged hand, his back arched, his chest and neck flushed with heat while Ron continued to slide Harry's cock between his tight fist, pulling on him persistently with an expertise born of long practice.

Pinching his nipple, Ron roughly twisted the nub of flesh between his thumb and finger with enough force that Harry groaned and his hips bucked. His eyes had gone completely black with lust as he continued to stare at her. Panting, he tried to bite his chapped and kiss-swollen lips to stop the rush of breath from his lungs and the groans he was  unable to stifle tonight as Ron pushed him closer to the edge.

Hermione saw the complete trust he had for them in his eyes, as if she could see straight through him viewed from those black portals into his soul. All his thoughts and emotions laid bare, the steel core within him dissolving in front of her eyes as he gazed at her. To be offered that tiny, unguarded glimpse inside him when he looked directly at her in the grip of passion, so close to his own orgasm made her body throb.

"Do you want me?" Ron asked as his hand stilled around Harry's shaft, breathing the question into his ear once again, forcing Harry to confess his desire, to admit his need even though it was obvious.

Ron was doing some conditioning of his own with Harry. Forcing him to speak the words that were so difficult for him to articulate. Trying to break down the barriers he'd erected for protection, and asking him to willingly submit with the promise of reward if he would. Harry did.

"You know I do!" Harry growled in frustration, his skin flushing with excitement or embarrassment at the admission.

Whining when Ron circled his erect and sensitive areola again with his fingernail, his stomach tensed and his legs trembled in anticipation of the pain and ecstasy Ron was promising him. But Ron did nothing more. Perhaps unsatisfied with Harry's answer, he withheld the reward Harry was due for his compliance, which surprised Hermione. He'd never pushed Harry this hard before. He'd never been cruel with the power Harry entrusted to him.

"Yes, Ron. Yes... God, please!" Harry begged, trying again for the right response as he pulled on Ron's hair pleadingly and pressed his hips forward into Ron's idle hand.

To her relief, she saw Ron's own eyes darken with desire as he smiled in approval and relented. Stepping forward, he slowly walked Harry towards the bed and towards her, leading him by the grip he had on his straining erection as he resumed stroking Harry.

"How about me, Harry? Do you want me?" she asked quietly looking up at them both when they were standing inches in front of her.

"Yes," he whispered, whimpering when she slid her finger lightly up the inside of his thigh and over his tightened scrotum.

Ron relaxed his possessive hold on Harry then, and Hermione trailed her finger over his knuckles and along the underside of Harry's shaft. Following her progress with his hand, Ron slid Harry's cock through his fist a final time before tilting it up to her mouth in offering.

When she moistened her lips and leaned into him, opening her mouth, Harry stopped breathing altogether. But he shuddered all over when her tongue slowly glided around the swollen glans Ron held steady for her, before licking the pearls of pre-cum that had gathered at the tip. When her lips sealed around him, Ron groaned in approval as if he truly had ownership over the cock in his hand, and could feel all the pleasure it was receiving. Telegraphed up his arm and into his own body by the nerves in his fingers as if the throbbing of Harry's erection was sending urgent pulses of electrical currents into him.

Crying out in a hoarse explosion of breath, still gripping Ron by the hair as his body convulsed, Harry climaxed almost immediately when Ron gave his nipple another brutal twist while guiding him over her tongue and down her throat.

~ .~


	42. The Countdown Begins

"Oh, fuck me," Harry groaned in dismay when he awoke the following morning with Ron's mouth around him under the blankets with a hand wrapped firmly around his shaft.

"I'd love to if you're offering," Ron replied with a chuckle before slurping the head of Harry's cock into his mouth again.

"It was a cry of exasperation. Not an invitation, thick head," Harry muttered darkly, glancing myopically around the familiar room and finding them alone.

While he did owe Ron one hell of a thank you for yesterday, Harry couldn't offer him what he continued to make perfectly clear he wanted. Not yet, anyway. Ron might be able to curl his tongue and snog like he invented it, he might be able to command Harry with his own cock like a trained whore, but he did not yet have the power to compel Harry to roll over and allow Ron to fuck him. The idea still terrified him. He'd  survived it more than once. Yet the farther away he got from those traumatic events, the more frightened of it he became. It pissed him off actually.

The pain he could handle. It wouldn't kill him, but mentally, he feared it would shatter him, collapsing all the fragile bindings that held him together. It was a critical weakness, and he was under no illusion that it wouldn't be used as a means to rip him apart and break him completely if he ever found himself in Voldemort's clutches. Tom would look straight into his mind and see the thing that frightened him the most. Harry would be handing him the weapon of his own destruction. But he hadn't found a method to defend against it, or the courage yet to confront it.

Shifting on the bed into a more comfortable position, Harry groaned as his limbs, heavy and weak from strain, voiced their displeasure over his ill treatment of them. God, he ached everywhere. His body was sore in places from muscles that hadn't seen use in a very long time from their evening flying excursion and in other places where they were utilized too much from their other late night activities.

Though he'd finally slept last night like he'd been concussed, his body was still suffering from fatigue. Harry was both astonished and amused that Ron still craved more. He knew that Ron's plans had been scuttled by him for several days in a row, but it seemed he intended to make up for that in one night, as if he were behind on his orgasm quota for the month and blamed Harry, intent on punishing him for it.

"Isn't there a limit to how much your insatiable sex drive can demand from me in like a ten hour period?" he questioned weakly, reaching beneath the blanket to stroke Ron's head. "Aren't your lips sore yet, or your tongue?"

"Huh umm," Ron replied, the denial a humming in his throat that sent delicious vibrations down Harry's cock.

"Fuuuucckk," he moaned, curling his hips up in response, but Ron pulled back, releasing him instead.

"Do you want me to stop then?" he asked challengingly.

"I'll bloody throttle you if you quit now, you bastard!" Harry growled, gripping Ron by the hair to try and force his head back down.

Snorting in amusement, Ron complied. But unlike the aggressive Ron he'd been last night, he was gentle with Harry this morning, perhaps aware that Harry was a bit tender. The resulting orgasm built in him gradually before cresting, rolling over him almost effortlessly like a long contented sigh after a held breath. It was a bliss that left him boneless on the bed and craving at least twenty-four  more hours of sleep to recover his senses. Ron, perhaps, felt the same as he laid his head down, pillowed on Harry's upper thigh with an arm thrown over him, and nuzzled against his spent cock before he went still.

Harry lay there stroking Ron's hair for a few minutes, feeling slightly apprehensive about this renewed level of intimacy between them. He shouldn't have agreed to come to bed with them last night. Especially this bed. Sirius' room was full of ghosts. They called to him like a siren song. The spirits whispered of home, promising him shelter and safety in their embrace, but it was an illusion.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a few more minutes to relish the weight of Ron's body against him. His head lay cradled against Harry's hip, his steady breath disturbing the hairs on the inside of his thighs, tickling the sensitive skin as he traced a finger around the shell of Ron's ear before reluctantly pulling his hand away to steer them back into more familiar waters he could better navigate.

"You're going to suffocate down there if you don't get some fresh air," Harry warned Ron, lifting the blankets to peer down at the top of his head. "Hermione's already up and we need to get moving too. We have consequences to face with Griphook for yesterday, remember? So if you want your turn, you better get up here, unless you were planning to see if I could jerk you off from down there with my feet."

Looking up, Ron grinned toothily at him. Then he bit Harry on the lower belly, pulling the flesh up between his teeth, stretching it until Harry groaned before releasing it so the skin snapped back into place. He kissed the spot as he rolled over and crawled up Harry's body.  Then he threw the covers off, exposing them both, and sat down on Harry's stomach. Harry grunted against the pressure on his full bladder, pulling his legs up to balance some of Ron's weight.

"Can you really do that with your feet?" Ron asked enthusiastically.

"Well hell no, you idiot! I mean, it's not like I've actually ever attempted it before. I'm not that limber," Harry said incredulously. "You don't really want me to try, do you?"

"Nah. I was just curious," Ron replied with an obnoxious smirk. Then he stuck his rolled tongue out at Harry, the ends curled towards the center forming a small tube.

Harry frowned up at him before flashing his own flat tongue back at Ron. "You weigh as much as Hagrid, you know?"

"Been letting Hagrid sit on your lap, have you? I'd like to see that sometime."

"You'd like a lot of things you're never getting," Harry grumbled, irritated with himself for walking right into that one. You'd think he'd have learned by now not to try and out banter a Weasley. "Aargh!" Harry growled, slapping Ron's thigh when he wiggled his hips and pressed down harder on Harry's bladder again. "Stop! You're going to make me piss myself."

Ron was naked as the day he was born, his cheeks flushed from heat and his hair a flaming riot around his head as he sat grinning down at Harry. His lips were swollen and chapped from overuse. His proud member stood erect in a thatch of copper curls against the smooth skin of his stomach. He looked so fucking shagable that Harry's already much abused cock stirred again in interest.

_Really?_ he thought incredulously. _Fucking hell!_ His thirst was just as insatiable as Ron's. Bellatrix would be furious at how easily they could get a rise out of him when she had to work so hard for every single erection she could obtain from him during his imprisonment. Though she'd likely take a great deal of sadistic satisfaction in knowing that when she came for him in his dreams now,  he always woke terrified and sickeningly ready for her.

Leaning down, Ron planted his arms on either side of Harry's pillow, relieving the pressure on his bladder as he brought his face in close to Harry's. Ron tried capturing his lips then, but Harry kept thwarting him. Mouth open, tongue poised at the rim of his teeth, he teased Ron, letting him almost achieve his goal before turning his head to the side or tilting it up so Ron only came into contact with his jaw or chin at the last minute.

Ron sat back up, frowning in frustration at Harry who was smirking up at him. He ran a finger over Ron's hardened length then, teasing him further, stroking him like a pet as he pouted up at him consolingly.

Closing his eyes a moment, the smile slowly reappeared on Ron's face. They glinted menacingly when he opened them again and stared down at Harry. Then he snagged Harry's wrists before pulling both his arms up to pin them over his head. Trapped now, Harry finally surrendered as Ron leaned forward again, trailing the tip of his tongue over Harry's stomach and up his sternum, the head of his cock following the slick path he'd made up Harry's body. Moistening his chapped lips then in anticipation as Ron bit him on the chin, Harry moaned. Then Ron was snogging him with those lips and tongue that had so recently been wrapped around him. He could taste his own release on Ron's tongue. He could taste Hermione there, too, which made his dick give another feeble lurch of longing.

God he loved kissing Ron. Each time felt just like the first time. The same mini-explosion went off in his brain, the same electric current shot through him, making his heart pound while heat flared between them as if an actual chemical reaction occurred when their saliva mingled. There were probably a thousand things about Hermione that made his pulse race, not the least of which was having her mouth on his, but with Ron it was something entirely different. It was the feeling of being claimed, of being utterly possessed. Harry didn't know how he did it. Lavender must have been one hell of a good tutor.

Though he would have happily remained right where he was, flat on his back with Ron on top of him, he still fought feebly to free his arms from Ron's grip. Part of the thrill of being possessed, for him, was the fight to resist it. Sliding his hands under Ron's bum then when he'd succeeded finally, Harry urged him upwards. Releasing his mouth, Ron stared down at him questioningly before complying. Harry scooted the pillow up with his elbows, shifting himself so Ron could crawl farther up him, straddling his chest. Then Harry opened his mouth in invitation. Holding onto the headboard, still on his knees, Ron leaned forward and slipped his eager cock past Harry's waiting lips.

"Oh my, God!" Ron moaned, his eyes widening is surprise when he slowly slid into Harry's mouth and down his unresisting throat to the root.

In this position, Ron had the freedom to set the pace and the depth, which had been Harry's intent. He wanted to give Ron the opportunity to fuck his mouth without restraint in compensation for the parts of his body he could not, and might not ever be able to relinquish. Granting his lover that much power over him in some fucked up way made Harry feel powerful, too. Yet another thing to add to his list of deviant proclivities.

The look of awe on Ron's face at this deep throat feat amused him, but actually it wasn't terribly difficult for Harry to accommodate his full length with his head in this position and his neck not bent. All he really needed was good control over his gag reflexes, which luckily, he possessed.

Not that he was a slouch in the fellatio department. He was certainly no longer a novice at least. Neither was Ron. What Ron may have lacked in his initial technique, however, he'd made up for in enthusiasm. He was good, Harry would give him that, but he fancied himself better. He'd at least never raked anyone with his teeth before, even though he would have liked to once. Harry couldn't begrudge Ron that though. Circumstances had required him to be a much faster learner, and the consequences for failure were far greater than a slight reproach from your lover.

Legs trembling and shoulders taut, Ron gripped the headboard harder while curses streamed unchecked past his lips on panting breaths, pistoning his hips faster when he realized Harry could take it and was actually encouraging it.

With Ron straddling his shoulders, Harry's arms were now trapped under Ron's body, leaving Harry with only the use of his mouth to bring him off. He was helpless to defend himself against the battering to his throat, but Harry wasn't afraid. He'd done it before, after all, though not voluntarily, and not because his hands had been restrained then. Pure panic and sheer stupidity had simply prevented him from realizing it for a while. At the moment, however, he still didn't have full use of the fingers on his right hand, and while Ron might think him ambidextrous, his left was still much weaker. But he wasn't totally without resources. Reaching up with his left hand, Harry stroked Ron's flexing backside, his finger trailing between the crease of his arse.

"Bloody, fucking Christ!" Ron gasped when his hand continued farther down between his spread legs, stroking Ron's perineum and the underside of his balls with his thumb. Harry knew Ron liked that spot, a lot.

The rhythm of Ron's thrusts had become uneven which threw off Harry's breathing pattern momentarily, but he quickly regained it. Gathering the swaying scrotum that were crashing into his chin with his fingers, Harry curled them into his palm, digging in his fingernails to pin them back while still firmly rubbing up against Ron with his thumb.

Crying out, Ron pressed his hips forward, forcing his cock as deeply as he could into Harry's mouth and came. Harry was unable to swallow around his girth, but as far down Harry's throat as his cock was wedged, he didn't need that reflex to accept Ron's seed. He did need to breathe, however. Fairly quickly. Thankfully, Ron emptied himself before panic could set in, and pulled back. Propped on his arms to hold himself up, Ron rested his forehead against the wall and slipped out of Harry's mouth, leaving both of them gasping for breath.

"That... was fucking... incredible!" Ron wheezed.

"I aim to please," Harry quipped hoarsely.

"I can honestly say that I've never once believed a word of Freud's penis envy theory until I walked in on that display," Hermione announced breathlessly from the doorway as both of them turned to look at her in surprise. "Damn it all, but I wanted to be you just then, Ron."

"I'm not sure who Froid is, or what he's been telling you about penises, but it's pretty damn fabulous being me right now," Ron replied with a weak chuckle. "I'll tell you that."

"Let me up, you bastard," Harry complained, slapping Ron on the rump. "I'm in desperate need of a piss."

With a groan, Ron swung his leg over Harry's chest and dropped onto his arse on the bed.

"I leave you two alone for five minutes!" Hermione huffed. "And nearly missed out on all that."

"You've been gone longer than five minutes. I think Harry went that long between breaths."

"In your dreams," Harry countered, crawling off the bed. "It took you less than thirty seconds from beginning to end. I never even got winded."

"Bullshit!" Ron cried in outrage, to Hermione's snort of amusement. "I lasted at least forty-five which is about forty seconds longer than you managed last night with Hermione."

"Well," Harry replied defensively. "She's a hell of a lot better at it than you, Ron, and a damn sight prettier."

"Nice," Ron snorted in response. "Well, it took a lot of effort for me not to come immediately. Did you see what he was letting me do to him?"

"Yes, Ron. I saw, and it sounds like I didn't miss much of it," she teased. "Though I'll admit that I was a bit alarmed at first that you were attacking him when I first walked in."

"He was," Harry replied dryly as he came to stand next to her. "He's just that inept."

Hermione pulled him into her embrace when he reached for the bag in her hand, and Harry slid his arms around her waist instead when their lips met. He held her against him for a moment before pressing his face into her neck. She was fresh from a shower, her skin dewy and pink. Her hair was damp and smelled like flowers and Harry smelled like sex. A lot of sex.

The image of the three of them all on their knees on the bed last night flashed suddenly in Harry's mind. Hermione between him and Ron, her thighs spread wide, her back arched with her hands on Ron's shoulders for support and Harry's at her waist as he drove into her from behind.

The memory of it made him shiver. It was the first time he'd ever done it like that, but hopefully not the last. In fact, he'd like to do it again, soon. But not right now, not until he'd scrubbed the smell of their previous sex off him, he was clean again, and they had more time.

"I'm a bit shagged out for the moment, Hermione," he apologized, stepping back from her and picking up his discarded clothes from the night before to hide the fact that his body was once again calling him a liar. "But I'll make breakfast if you want."

"That sounds like a fair trade," she replied with a grin.

"Get your arse off the bed and into the shower, you lazy lump," Harry called to Ron over his shoulder as he turned for the door after donning his pajama bottoms for the trip down the stairs. "We're due a thrashing and I'd just as soon get it over with."

"Don't you want to take a shower with me first?" Ron asked, grinning like a devil when Harry turned back to stare at him disbelievingly. "I'll wash you're junk for you this time instead of just your hair."

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass. I need a break from your hands vigorously rubbing my junk for a little while."

 

* * *

 

They were running fairly late by the time both he and Ron got cleaned up, which wasn't going to win them any points with Griphook. So Harry made a quick breakfast of eggs and soldiers before they set off for Bill's.

Griphook did not disappoint when they finally arrived for what Harry had begun to liken to an all day detention. The goblin was simply furious. The brief tongue lashing Harry had received the day before when he'd told Griphook they were taking the afternoon off was but a taste of what he gave the three of them for the better part of an hour today. The excuse that Harry had been ill yesterday did not play well against the knowledge he'd already gained from Dean last night that they'd played Quidditch in the evening. In the end, it wasn't Ron's temper that had to be kept in check, or even his own. It was Hermione's.

"You sit there on your backside, like the world owes you a favor," she fumed when she'd finally had enough. "Complaining about the accommodations, and the food, and the company you're forced to keep. You tell us self-righteously of the dangers you're facing and the sacrifices your making to help us as if those dangers and sacrifices aren't just as real to us or far greater. But might I remind you that unlike yourself, none of us are here for our own personal gain. Our cooperation isn't being bought for the price of a sword. Our only reward, if we don't die in the attempt, is simply one obstacle down and the beginning of the next in a bid to end this war. A war that you're all to happy to let rage on until the entire wizarding population annihilates each other while you sit back and polish your prize. But you don't believe this is your war, do you? Oblivious to what it could mean for each and every magical race if he should succeed. You're motivations for helping us, however repugnant I believe them to be, are your own, but I will not allow you to chastise us like children for not taking this seriously, as if we think it's some game. I've been as tolerant of your own selfish behavior as I'm willing to be. If you want to leave, the door is that way," she snarled, pointing behind her. "See where it leads you."

Harry and Ron stood in stunned silence as Hermione stomped past them and over to the chair in the corner of the room. Slamming her bag down on the table, she took her seat and folded her arms across her chest.

"Well then," Ron said after a few  minutes of Hermione and Griphook glaring daggers at each other. "If the unpleasant parts are over finally, perhaps we can get down to business?" When no one voiced any objections, he dropped down onto the end of the bed and turned to Harry. "Chuck us that package the twins gave you yesterday then. Maybe there's something in there that we can actually use."

Harry obliged, removing the tiny package from his jacket pocket where it had remained last night, having forgotten about it. He handed it to Ron while Hermione removed her ream of notes, fresh parchment, and a quill.

"So," Harry said when they'd inventoried the contents which contained a little bit of just about everything Fred and George's shop had to offer. "While some of these things might come in useful, like the decoy detonators and the darkness powder, none of them are going to get us past the guards at the doors. And without a plan for that, everything else falls apart."

"Is there any way we can get our hands on those secrecy sensors they use?" Ron suggested. "Maybe disable them  in advance so you two can sneak by under the cloak?"

"No," Griphook answered. "They are locked securely in the bank when not in use and tested for effectiveness every morning."

"Bugger."

"Yes," Griphook agreed. "Quite."

"Well, a Confundus charm is the only real option we have left then. We're only going to get one shot at this, though," Harry warned them. "If it fails, we might be able to get away with our lives, but we'll never have another chance to try again."

"I agree. They will enact new and greater defenses if they detect an attempted breach," Griphook confirmed.

"Better make it count then," Ron suggested.

"Just make sure you aim for the face, Harry," Hermione instructed. "They won't be able to see you under the cloak, and Ron and I will try to keep them distracted for you, but with those shield cloaks of Fred and George's on, their bodies will be protected. Straight to the face is the only way the spell will hit them instead of rebounding onto you."

"I know," Harry admitted irritably. "Okay, then assuming we get past the doors, then it's into the lobby and up to the counter."

"We will use Bogrod, fourth station on the right from the entrance. He is known to be in sympathy with the Dark Lord, and will therefore be more eager to accommodate Ms. Lestrange.”

“Well, if he’s as enamored with the Dark Lord, and as keen to please as you say he is, Griphook, then he’s our best hope of showing Bellatrix to her vault without her key and without asking too many questions.”

"I agree, Mr. Potter."

They continued to walk through the plan, going over the obstacles they might encounter and their intended solution for them one by one while Hermione furiously scribbled down the steps in a sort of short-hand outline. No doubt she would write them out again more neatly tonight, probably color coded and in triplicate.

"And Bob's your uncle!" Ron pronounced at the conclusion of the recitation. "That's it then, yeah?"

“That's it then," Griphook confirmed. "We must now come to a consensus on a date in which to carry out this plan.”

Harry hesitated, looking nervously to Ron and Hermione. He knew it was coming, but he wasn't prepared for the suddenness of the suggestion.

"Are you sure we've gone over everything, Griphook?" Hermione asked, her own apprehension showing on her face.

"There is nothing left to discuss," the goblin announced crisply.

"Monday, then," Harry blurted, before he lost his nerve. "We'll plan to do it on Monday."

"Monday is the busiest day at the bank, Mr. Potter," Griphook reminded him. "Perhaps tomorrow, a Wednesday would be a more suitable date?"

"No," Harry argued, feeling a momentary flash of panic at the thought of going tomorrow. "The more people at the bank the better, I would think. We'll draw less attention to ourselves that way."

"Perhaps that's true, Harry," Hermione agreed. "But we also add that many more variables into the equation as well as more witnesses. The more people present, the greater the chance of running into someone we'd rather not meet."

"Damn it. You're right," Harry conceded. "And the more people we put in harm's way. All right. Wednesday, then. A week from tomorrow," he quickly amended, turning back to Griphook.

The goblin frowned, his greedy black eyes boring into Harry's a moment before he inclined his head slightly. "As you wish," he finally agreed.

A sense of dread washed over Harry. A week. They had seven days left.

 

* * *

 

A renewed sense of urgency had fallen over all of them with the date finally having been set. That evening, when they'd returned from Shell Cottage, Hermione began experimenting with transfiguring Ron’s appearance while Harry studied the diagram of the bank interior and the underground vaults that Griphook had sketched out, trying to commit the passages to memory. 

“Well, Harry? What do you think?” Hermione asked after more than an hour.

Harry looked up into Ron’s grinning face, though he didn’t look remotely like Ron at the moment with his features totally distorted. Still, it gave Harry the creeps slightly, even though there was something off about it that he recognized immediately.

“The hair color doesn’t match with his skin tone,” he replied, studying her spell work with a critical eye. “You can tell he’s really a ginger. It’s a dead giveaway that it’s a disguise. I think it needs to be something like sandy brown, or maybe a very dark auburn," he suggested. "And give him a beard to make him look older. God knows he can't grow a decent one on his own.”

"Fuck off," Ron growled indignantly.

“Hmmm,” Hermione said thoughtfully, scrutinizing Ron. “I think you’re right. Come back, Ron.”

Ron had already taken several steps towards the door when she called him back. “Don’t I even get a chance to see for myself, or get a vote?” he whined, turning back to face her.

“I suppose. But Harry’s right. The color is wrong. I’ll leave everything else. Just let me work on that part a bit more.”

“Fine, but make my nose a little smaller, too, would you? This thing’s getting in my way.”

“It’s the same length. I just made it more bulbous.”

“Nice. Well, if you would please, make my beak a little smaller if it’s going to be this fleshy. Okay? I feel like I’m going cross-eyed because it’s the only damn thing I can see.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

Harry returned to Griphook’s drawing, now studying the bank’s interior as Hermione and Ron continued to bicker.

Still engrossed in the drawings, Harry didn't look up immediately when someone plopped down on the couch next to him sometime later. He did, however, when a hand was placed high on his thigh and began inching upwards. The face Harry looked up into, though, was not familiar. It was the face of a stranger, a man's, sitting much too near him and touching him entirely to intimately. He panicked.

“NO!” he shouted. “Don’t touch me!” Scrambling backwards on the couch, Harry was frantic to get away. He only stopped when his back came up against the arm rest on the far side of the couch, his legs pulled up against his chest, his body hunched around them protectively. Finally, his mind overrode his panic and he realized that it was only Ron, transfigured.

“I’m so sorry,” Ron apologized, hands up in a placating gesture as Harry clutched at his chest, trying to breathe. “Hermione, undo it. Hurry!”

“I’m okay,” Harry said shakily, still gasping. “I’m all right. I… I just didn’t remember, I guess. I didn’t know who you were… just some stranger... touching me… a… a Death Eater or something. Jesus Christ!” His heart was still hammering, and his whole body was tingling as he shuddered before blowing out a lung full of air, feeling sick to his stomach and light headed.

“Fucking hell, Harry! I’m sorry, mate,” Ron apologized again as Hermione quickly returned his features to normal. “I didn’t mean to scare the shite out of you. I called your name twice, but you were in your own world or something. I should have known better than to pull that, though. I’m truly sorry.”

Harry stood up on shaking legs, needing to work the tension and adrenaline out of his limbs for a minute. “It’s not your fault I’m mental, Ron.”

“It’s my fault I keep making you mental,” Ron argued. “Damn it, Harry. I’m never going to stop fucking things up with you, am I?”

“I said I’m okay, Ron. I’m fine… really. Just… just don’t touch me like that when you don’t look like yourself. Okay? Even if I know who you are at the time, I don’t think I can handle that.” Slowly, he sat back down on the couch, though still as far away from Ron as he could manage. “Remind me not to take my eyes off either of you when you’re transforming. Particularly you, Hermione. The very last thing in the world I want is to see you turning into her, but if I don’t see it, and know it’s really you, I might do something terrible.”

 “Oh, I hate this plan! I wish we had another option. I don’t want to put you through this, Harry,” she said sympathetically, coming to sit next to him on the couch and stroking his arm.

“I know. I hate it, too, but there isn’t another option. This is the best shot we have of getting into that vault. I promise I’ll do my best to hold it together. Just… just try not to speak to me very much when you’re Polyjuiced. Hearing your words coming out of her mouth is probably going be traumatic enough to give me nightmares for weeks if I don’t have a complete mental breakdown first.”

 

* * *

 

Harry had trouble sleeping that night, but not from actual nightmares. It was simply acute anxiety of the looming deadline that prevented him from getting any rest. When he awoke the next morning, his first thought was that exactly a week from today he'd be waking up, getting ready to make one last trip to Shell Cottage to collect Griphook. His invisibility cloak would be tucked inside his jacket, and he would be walking alongside Ron, who would be transfigured into a stranger, with Hermione, cloaked in Bellatrix's body, on his other side. He shuddered with revulsion at the thought.

They spent the whole day with Griphook going over and over the plan as they intended to do every day until the last day. Taking turns, they recited every detail from memory, the others correcting what they got wrong until Harry's already hoarse voice was threatening to abandon him again completely.

Hermione put honey in his evening tea to soothe his throat. His eyes felt gritty from tiredness when he crawled into his bed that night and lay on his back. Thinking; it's Wednesday night, this time next week, if they made it out of the bank alive, they would be sleeping in the tent out in the middle of nowhere.

They'd agreed privately to Apparate first to the top of Stoatshead Hill where they'd taken the Portey to the Quidditch World Cup the summer before their fourth year. Meeting up there first in the event that they got separated before Apparating again together to some, as yet still unknown, destination for the night.

He closed his eyes. Tomorrow there would be six days left. After several hours of fruitless tossing and turning, he finally left his bed and spent the rest of the night curled in the chair in their room where he dozed off and on before returning to his room in the morning before they woke and found him there.

He was incredibly tired the next day and found it hard to concentrate. He kept getting things wrong in his narration, which was frustrating Hermione and especially Griphook. His forehead  prickled uncomfortably and the light hurt his tired, dry eyes. Feeling shaky and slightly queasy when his head started to throb dully, he excused himself finally to make a trip to the loo to splash some water on his face.

He jerked backwards abruptly when he reached for the doorknob as if he'd been struck by lightning, his scar suddenly exploding in excruciating pain. Clutching his head at the wild rush of images and emotions that flooded through the connection he shared with Voldemort, Harry cried out in agony. Then his legs were crumpling underneath him, and he was falling into blackness.

He came to on the floor, being dragged into a sitting position against the wall as a new wave of confused sounds and panicked muttering swirled around him with the spinning of the room.

"What's happening to him? Has he gone mad?" he heard Griphook's guttural voice demand.

"Shut up!" Ron shot back. "Harry? Mate? Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

Harry nodded, still trying to blink the room and its occupants into focus. "Snape," he mumbled. "It was about Snape and something about the wand."

"Not here," Ron warned him, trying to silence Harry's confused confession.

"What is he saying? What is this?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Hermione answered tightly. "Just give him some space."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry groaned, clammy with cold sweat.

"Can you get up?"

Harry shook his head.

"Here," Hermione offered, conjuring a cold rag and handing it to Ron. "Put that on his forehead, over the scar. It might help the pain and calm the nausea."

Harry reached out a trembling hand for it, but Ron placed it on his forehead and held it in place. Harry moaned at the shock of the freezing cloth against his burning scar.

"Through the mark... he... he could track him through the mark," he continued to babble, trying to sort through the confusing images while his head throbbed and his scar seared. "He was causing Snape pain through it... a lot of pain."

"Okay, just hush now—"

"I think he was trying to kill him through the dark mark, but then he just lost the connection." He looked blearily up at Ron then. "I think Snape might have severed his own arm to save himself."

"Christ almighty!" Ron whispered in horror.

"But what was it about the wand... What does Snape have to do with the wand?"

"I don't know, but we can talk about it later, okay?" Ron urged him.

"Okay," Harry agreed, finally coming back to himself and to his surroundings somewhat. Realizing vaguely the things he'd just revealed to an audience that was not made up entirely of trusted allies. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Do you think you can stand now? Are you going to be sick?"

"No... I mean yes, I think I can stand, and no, I don't think I'm going to vomit anymore.  Thank you," he said gratefully, staring up at Hermione. "That really helped."

Hermione nodded. "Ron, can you get him on the bed. I'm going to get him a glass of water." Then she turned to Griphook. "We're taking a thirty-minute break for Harry to recover himself."

"I'm all right," Harry argued, getting unsteadily to his feet with Ron's help.

"Are you communing with The Dark Lord?" Griphook demanded.

"Not now, you bastard!" Ron shot back, grabbing the goblin by his shirt and jerking him forward so the two of them were nose to nose.

"I have a right to know if Mr. Potter has a connection with He Who Must Not Be Named. It puts us all in danger!"

"You'll be in danger from me if you don't hold your tongue, goblin!" Ron growled. "If you can't stop it waggling, I'll cut it out for you."

"I'm not afraid of you, boy!"

"You should be, actually," Harry said calmly, touching Ron's hand to get him to release Griphook. "He can get very violent in defense of me."

"Thirty minutes, Griphook. Then we'll speak about this," Hermione told him sternly, before opening the door and ushering the glaring goblin ahead of her as she left the room to retrieve the water.

"It's not as if this is a secret, you know," Harry reminded them when Hermione returned with the water and locked the three of them in together. "Skeeter wrote about me falling out all over the place in the Daily Prophet after she saw it happen in Divination while she was sneaking around the grounds during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Remember? They used that later to say I was mentally unstable during their smear campaign of Dumbledore and me."

"Yes, Harry. Of course we remember, but the reason for the pain in your scar was never actually explained."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't really matter now. Does it? What's Griphook going to do with the knowledge? Sell it? To whom? To Riddle or to the press maybe? There's no gain in that for him. Tom's already aware of our connection and the Prophet has slandered me so much that his information won't help them sell more papers. I hardly think it could make me more undesirable to the public. I've already got the top spot."

"So what did you see?" Ron questioned him.

"I know the reason now that no one leaves his service. Death Eaters, I mean. Even if they try to run, the mark he brands them with allows him to track their whereabouts somehow, like a homing device."

"But Snape has been on the run for as long as we have after our escape. If The Dark Lord could track him, why has it taken so long to find him?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, I think he's sent people after him. Snape's just been too slippery to get caught. I think Riddle has been preoccupied with other things, like getting the wand, to go after him, himself. Not anymore though. Tom's rogue potions master just moved to the top of the list. Even ahead of me."

"You said something about the wand, that it had to do with the wand."

"That's right. He wants Snape dead very badly now, because of the wand."

"What does Snape being alive have to do with the wand?"

"Snape killed Dumbledore, Ron," Hermione explained. "If He Who Must Not Be Named thinks he's in possession of the Death Stick, then according to legend, to truly master it, you must win it by killing the previous owner."

"Maybe," Ron conceded. "But he's had the Elder Wand for some time. Why turn his attention to the greasy git now?"

"It's not working for him," Harry answered immediately, certain that his suspicions about the wand's loyalty were true. "He doesn't think the wand is as powerful as it should be and he's decided to remedy that."

"Didn't work though, did it?" Ron asked. "You think Snape got away again, don't you?"

"Well, Tom certainly does," Harry agreed. "He was furious when the connection was severed. If Snape was dead, he'd be jubilant, wouldn't he?"

"And you think Snape broke the connection by cutting off his own arm?" Hermione questioned shuddering with revulsion. "If he did, then he's likely dead anyway, or at the very least, gravely injured with a wound like that."

"Oh, I think Snape is cleverer than that," Harry replied. "I think he learned a lot under his Master's tutelage. I bet he's already sporting a brand new shiny silver arm, and a thousand miles away from the real appendage he left behind."

"Won't be silver," Ron said. "Too ostentatious for Snape. It'll be black... with a matte finish."

Harry snorted. "Probably."

"I never thought I'd ever be rooting for that bastard's continued existence," Ron muttered darkly. "But the very last thing we need right now is for him to be dead at the Dark Lord's hand and the Elder Wand's loyalty transferred."

"Hmm..." Harry said.  "The thing is, I'm not sure−"

A loud rap on the door signaled Griphook's return, cutting off Harry's musings.  Sitting up fully on the bed, he took another sip of the water before nodding to Hermione, who turned then to unlock the door.

"You've not been honest with me, Harry Potter," the goblin announced when he'd entered the room, his black eyes glittering angrily.

"Nor, I suspect, have you been completely honest with me, Griphook," Harry replied coolly.

"You have a connection with The Dark Lord!"

"I do. But it's not your concern."

"It is my concern, you foolish boy!"

"Call him that again−" Ron threatened.

"The connection is intermittent. I sometimes get flashes of thoughts when he's feeling powerful emotions. It's an affliction from his curse," Harry explained irritably, brushing the hair off his scar. "While it's incredibly inconvenient for me and sometimes incapacitating, as you just witnessed, it's no danger to you or this mission."

"Unless you are inconveniently incapacitated during our infiltration of Gringotts!" Griphook countered.

"The attacks are nowhere near as frequent as the _Prophet_ has reported."

"But they do occur with regularity."

"You've been with me all day, every day for weeks now, and this is the first incident you've witnessed, is it not? Normally, I can control it," Harry lied. "I wasn't feeling well, as you know before it came on, and it just caught me unawares is all. It will not compromise our plan on the bank. I assure you."

Of course, he could promise no such thing. The truth was, of course, that the symptoms he'd experienced before his collapse were a warning sign of an imminent attack. He was just too tired or distracted to recognize them for what they were until it was too late.

"I should have been told of this. It is significantly late in the game to be discovering this now."

"There are a great many things about me that I've chosen not to share with you. Like why I'm willing to risk my life to break into the bank, or even what I'm after. That hasn't seemed to cause you any disquiet. You knew when you agreed to this that I'm fighting against him. You know he's after me and will kill me and anyone else around me if he finds me. Does it somehow make a difference if I have a connection with him that sometimes makes me ill?"

"It does if the connection works both ways."

"It does not."

"How can you be sure?" Griphook questioned.

"He tried once. Alright? It was an excruciatingly painful experience for us both and not one that he's likely to repeat."

"So he is aware of this connection, then?"

"He is," Harry confirmed. "And no happier about it than I am."

"Lunch," came Bill's gruff call followed by the rapping of his knuckles on the door.

Harry glanced at the door, and then returned his eyes to the goblin. "Well then. That's the full disclosure. If you still have reservations or intend to back out, now is the time to tell me."

Griphook said nothing, staring into Harry's eyes unblinkingly for a long time, as if judging the truthfulness of his words.  Harry stared back until he grew tired of the stupid game.  Crawling off the bed, he took the goblin's silence for acceptance and left the three of them standing in the room as he headed for the door to get some lunch.

He wasn't very hungry, though, and spent much of his time pushing the food around on his plate. His appetite had not returned by their evening meal either, which hadn't gone unnoticed by Hermione. When he'd pushed his plate away after only a few bites, she resolutely pushed it back in front of him with a stern glance.

"Harry, you must eat something," she warned him under her breath as she reached for her glass so as not to draw too much attention to him from the others. Particularly Fleur, who seemed to have made it her mission to monitor any changes in his health, having already worried over his pallid complexion during their earlier meal.

Sighing, Harry loaded up his fork, chewed the tasteless food, swallowed and repeated the process until more than half of his meal was consumed and she was satisfied.

He knew she was right, of course. Loss of appetite was his body's natural response to stress, but he couldn't very well expect to carry out this mission on no sleep and very little food.

It felt like a it had been a very long day when they finally headed back to Grimmauld Place that evening. They'd asked him to share their bed again, and he'd agreed again, curling up between them on Sirius' enlarged feather mattress to sleep after they'd made love.

Five days left, he thought when he opened his eyes the next morning with Ron's face wedged against his neck, Hermione's hair in his nose and her hand curled on his chest. Five short days.

 

* * *

 

For the next few days, Harry tried to keep up his strength. Trying to get as much sleep and food as his body would permit, and the times when he couldn't, trying to hide it from Ron and Hermione. Gratefully, he had no more flashes of Voldemort's thoughts, though he dwelled on the revelations from the last one endlessly. If what Ollivander had told him about wands was correct, then Riddle had not won the wand's allegiance by simply taking it from Dumbledore's tomb. Clearly Tom did not feel a kinship with the Elder Wand, at least, and was seeking a remedy. Harry found himself agreeing with Ron. Never in his life had he wished more strongly for Snape's continued safety. Yet, he was certain that something about that wasn't right.

As Hermione pointed out, Snape had killed Dumbledore, which legend would say would make him the owner of the wand. Yet Dumbledore had not killed Grindelwald when he'd taken possession of it. He'd simply beaten Grindelwald in a duel, which had been enough, it seemed, for the  wand to recognize Dumbledore as its new master. Harry knew what it felt like when a connection was made between wand and owner.  He'd handled nearly every wand in Ollivander's shop it seemed trying to find his match with the Holly and Phoenix feather wand that finally chose him. The Blackthorn wand he'd used as a replacement had always felt alien in his hand, but not Draco's wand. Harry felt an affinity with it, too, which didn't make any sense to him. He'd not won it from Draco. He'd simply taken it, swapping it for the Blackthorn like Voldemort had done with Dumbledore's. Why then would Draco's wand work for him and the Elder Wand not for Tom? Was it simply that the Elder Wand was a much more powerful magical object?  Something about it nagged at him, and it had to do with Draco. He could not put the pieces together yet, but the answer was there, somewhere. He just had to find it.

On the final day, they broke at lunch, leaving Shell Cottage to return to Number Twelve. Harry knew it raised suspicion with Bill for them to head home so early, but there was nothing for it, really. They each knew the plan by heart and could recite it backwards and forwards. There was nothing to be gained from sitting locked together in a room and driving each other crazy when they had things that needed their attention at home.

They'd put off collecting all their scattered possessions, none of them truly wanting to face the prospect of packing their things up and securing the house. Even though they told themselves it was only for one night. That's not the way it felt, to Harry at least. He kept trying to tell himself it was just anxiety at their first real mission since their capture, but it didn't ease his sense of dread. There was a feeling of finality in this trip tomorrow, an ending that hung over them like a black cloud. Harry felt certain that they'd never be coming back here. He thought they both sensed it, too, but none of them voiced it aloud. Instead, they busied themselves crawling around in every crevice of the place in search of misplaced objects. Harry tasked himself with preparing dinner while Hermione packed their things away in her beaded bag, working mostly in silence.

After their meal, they returned to the Drawing room, still transfigured to resemble the Gryffindor Common room, but unnaturally clean. It gave the place a museum like quality that Harry didn't like at all.

In the weeks since Dobby's death, the place had taken on a much more lived in quality with bits of parchment littering the floor, the couch cushions in a constant state of disarray and half drunk mugs of tea littering the tables. Now the only thing out of place were the three sets of clothes laid out neatly on the table for tomorrow and the three nervous teenagers who would be wearing them engaged in awkward small talk to pass the time.

Harry had remained mostly silent, which was another of his automatic responses to stress. Ron and Hermione, in contrast, usually became excessively chatty when nervous. Tonight was no exception. Harry began to tune them out, his thoughts turning inward as he thought over the long path that had led him to this day, the Horcruxes that were left, the Hallows he'd chosen not to seek, Dumbledore's last secrets in Snape's memories that still remained to be revealed. He thought of what tomorrow might bring, and what would happen if things went tits over tea kettle and they were captured again. The sudden memory of that vivid nightmare made him shudder.

Turning his hands over in his lap, Harry examined his palms. They were pink and smooth, harmless to look at. Did he actually have control of it? Could he summon his magic on command if need be? Harry glanced at Draco's wand lying on the table beside him and reached for it. The wand immediately warmed in his grip, that familiar sensation of kinship rekindled which sent his mind spinning again, searching his fragmented memories for answers.

"Harry?"

It was right there, he thought, twirling the wand in his fingers, a memory very close to the surface now.

"Harry?" Hermione called again, more loudly this time.

Harry blinked. "Hmm?" he responded absently, glancing up at her finally.

"You're off in your own world. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing at all, really."

"Well, it's getting late. We need to get to bed.  Will you come with us?" she asked.

Harry shook his head. "No, I... I don't think I'll be very good company, Hermione."

"I don't want you to be alone, Harry. Not tonight. Please?" she pleaded.

"I'll be fine," he assured her. Getting to his feet, he pulled her into his embrace. "Don't worry about me," he murmured into her hair before kissing her on the cheek. Then he released her and walked from the room before either of them could try and persuade him further.

As much as he would have liked taking comfort from them tonight, Harry wanted to give them this last night together in case it was their last, in case things went bad tomorrow and he was forced to honor his promise to Hermione. The thought made him physically ill, the fear making him weak. He'd told her that he'd lay waste to all of them if there were no other option, but even assuming he could summon the courage and his magic to do it, he would not be able to join them. The flames might consume everyone around him, but they would leave him physically unharmed.

He would be completely shattered, devoid of the will to live, but left alive he would be and utterly alone in the world. There would be no comfort in the safety of death for him, no absolution of his crimes. And when he did finally succumb, once everyone he loved had died and  it was finally his turn, there would be no one waiting for him on the other side. Not a single soul willing to unlock the door and let him inside to join the people he'd spent his lifetime grieving. What awaited him was an eternity out in the snow. A lifetime of hell watching them through the mullioned windows with no hope of entry. Harry's hell would not be an inferno of flames, but a bitter, all consuming cold.

He shivered at the thought, feeling cold and desolate. He tried to sleep, curling up in a ball under the blankets for warmth, but the inferno raging under his skin had never warmed him. It might make him hot to the touch, but like all fevers, it left him chilled.

When he couldn't stand the solitude any longer, he finally crawled off his bed and padded quietly into their room where the empty chair sat waiting for him. Curling up in it, he tucked his knees against his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, waiting in the darkness for their last hours to tick by and their last sunrise to come.

~ . ~


	43. The Eve of Everything

Ron opened his eyes. It was still dark, still hours away from twilight. Hearing no disturbance in the house, he wasn't sure what had caused him to wake. Reaching out automatically to touch Hermione's sleeping form, he felt the tiny bumps along her spine as his fingers trailed down her back over the soft worn fabric of one of his own night shirt she'd worn to bed. She sighed softly at his touch and burrowed into her pillow, still facing away from him. Assured then of her presence and her continued slumber, he blinked a few times, yawned, and then pulled a hand out from under the blankets to scratch at his chest before sliding the hand under his head. It was then that he noticed someone sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed.

His adrenaline surged and he gasped in surprise, terrified for a split second before he realized the silent figure was Harry. His legs were pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as he sat perfectly still. His chin rested on his knees while the toes of his bare feet hung off the edge of the chair.

Tonight was the first time Ron was aware of that he’d ever come to their room without being asked. Wondering what had driven him out of his own bedroom and into theirs, Ron turned onto his side, propped on his elbow as his heart rate returned to normal. It was a nightmare, most likely. And it must have been another bad one to make him flee to their room.

“Harry?” he called softly. “You okay?”

He waited, but Harry didn’t respond, which made Ron squint at him in concern. Unable to see Harry’s face clearly enough in the darkness, he wasn’t sure if he was asleep sitting tucked up in a ball like that or comatose from fear. He'd not reacted at all to Ron's startled alarm at noticing his presence, nor so much as turned his head when Ron had called to him. Sitting up to get a better look, he saw Harry’s eyes blink.

Okay. So he was awake, he supposed, or possibly sleep walking again. Perhaps too restless with anxiety about their looming task at the coming dawn for his mind to allow him rest well tonight. With that thought, the worry and concern that seemed to have become his automatic reaction to Harry overtook him.

Ron really had no idea what had driven him out of his own bed to sit at the foot of theirs in the darkness, for who knew how long. His queries had gone unanswered, and pressing Harry wasn’t apt to get him any further details, either. It was just as likely that Harry didn’t know himself.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

Harry nodded once, yet remained silent.

Ron closed his eyes briefly in thankful relief. “Come here, then,” he beckoned.

To his complete surprise, Harry obeyed. Without a sound, he left the chair and walked over to Ron, who immediately scooted over into the middle of the mattress, crowding Hermione so that she was now in danger of falling off if she tried changing positions and turned the wrong way in her sleep. Still watching Harry curiously as he stood silently beside the bed, Ron lifted the blankets. Harry swiftly crawled in next to him. Ron expected him to be cold from the way he was holding himself in the chair, like a frightened child. Harry was in nothing but his pajama bottoms, which was unusual, but he was radiating heat as he always did.

“You don’t have to wait for an invitation, you know,” Ron told him when Harry had settled beside him.

“Bed’s not big enough.”

“Well, if you’d have agreed to let us all move back into Sirius’ room, it wouldn’t be a problem. That bed is big enough.”

Harry shook his head, and Ron sighed at his stubbornness. But when was Harry not stubborn? It appeared to be his most dominate trait.

They lay silently for what felt like a long time. Harry was curled on his side facing away from Ron while Ron stroked his arm, feeling surreptitiously along the inside of his elbow for any telltale marks on his skin before Harry finally spoke.

“I'm sorry, but I can’t sleep, and I really don’t want to be alone tonight,” he whispered. Rolling towards Ron suddenly, he buried his face in Ron’s neck. Ron tilted his head back, sighing at the feel of Harry’s stubbled chin scratching against his neck as he burrowed into him.

“I know how you feel, but we’re as prepared for this as we can be, better than we were trying to get that locket from Umbridge, at least,” Ron said encouragingly, now stroking Harry's back soothingly. “We’ve got an inside guy… or goblin, this time. We’ll get that Horcrux tomorrow and we’ll be one more down. You’ll see.”

Characteristically taciturn, Harry merely nodded before kissing the underside of Ron’s jaw. Then he placed a hand behind Ron’s head to pull his face down and claim his lips, effectively circumventing Ron’s banal attempts at further conversation. Running a hand down Ron’s back and into the waistband of his boxers, Harry grasped a handful of his arse as the kiss deepened. Abandoning his curiosity and concern about the reasons for Harry’s sudden appearance in their room for his own carnal desires, Ron eagerly mirrored his lover’s actions, and they pulled themselves together, pressed against each other from chest to knee. 

Ron was more than a little surprised at Harry initiating this, but pleasantly so, excited to be woken up in the night for some heavy petting. He’d drop whatever he was doing for this, even set aside a conversation about the fear of their imminent death to feel Harry’s body against his own.  Hell, he wasn’t ever sure that Harry was really awake, or knew what the hell he was doing.  He still hadn’t ruled out sleepwalking again, in which case, Ron was taking advantage of him. But he had Harry pressed down into the mattress, rubbing against him, and it was too late to worry about it now.

Breaking the kiss, he bent down to take Harry’s nipple between his teeth. Harry clutched at the back of his head in response, arching his back while Ron tugged on Harry’s pajama bottoms and boxers to slide them down his legs before kicking them down to the bottom of the bed where they’d likely never find them again. Pulling back, he ran his hands up Harry’s bare thighs, cupping his balls and rolling them in his palm while Ron watched his expression. Unable to stifle the moan that rose up through his chest, Harry arched up again, thrusting his already firm erection into Ron’s hand. He was obviously quite eager tonight.

“I’m asking, Ron,” Harry whispered breathlessly when Ron wrapped his fingers tightly around his velvet length and squeezed.

“You’re asking what?” Ron questioned absently as he leaned down to return to Harry’s mouth.

“I’m asking,” Harry repeated again, more strongly this time, pulling his head back to deny Ron his lips as he looked Ron in the eyes.

Ron stared at his shadowed face a moment before his meaning finally became clear. “Why?” he asked suspiciously, forgetting to keep his voice down in his surprise. He lowered it again. “Why now?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“We’re not going to die tomorrow, you prat! If that’s what this is about…”

“It’s not… I’m just ready to try if you want to,” Harry responded, his fingers trailing down Ron’s stomach to stroke a finger enticingly over Ron’s cock though his own boxers.

“No,” Ron said then, gathering his resolve and shaking his head. “Not tonight, Harry.”

“What?” Harry asked, sounding stunned at the rejection. “Why?”

“Ask me again tomorrow when we’re in the tent, after we’ve come back from the bank and are one more Horcrux down.” He leaned down and kissed Harry quickly. “Ask me again then, and I’ll know you mean it, and not as some desperate, last chance gift to me, or something.”

“Come on, Ron,” Harry pleaded, now squeezing the head of Ron’s cock. “I need you tonight. Don’t make me beg.”

“Damn you,” Ron growled. “You’re making me the bad guy here.”

“Then don’t say no.”

“Stop guilting me into this, Harry! This is a mistake,” Ron hissed warningly, but he was crumbling, and Harry knew it. He badly wanted Harry, was desperate to try, and it was a difficult thing to refuse when Harry was so willing and insistent. God damn him!

“You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you? Harry asked petulantly as his hand slipped past the elastic of Ron’s pants. “Fine. Please, Ron? Please will you fuck me?” Licking his lips, he ran his thumb around the rim of Ron’s prick before leaning into him. But Ron jerked back, feeling suddenly panicked as warning sirens blared in his head.

Startling Harry, Ron quickly rolled over him and off the bed as if it had just burst into flames around him. Harry stared up at him a moment, dumbfounded before sitting up. Then he slid off the bed himself to stand naked in front of Ron. 

Bloody hell, he was magnificent! His body seemed to glow slightly in the dim moonlight, as if the heat from his body cast a visible aura around him.

“What’s wrong? I know you want this from me, Ron,” he whispered, taking a step forward.

“Why are you doing this?” Ron demanded in a harsh whisper. Stepping back from Harry, Ron maintained his distance, as if afraid for him to get too close lest he lose control of the tenuous grip on his own self-control. Already his voice was unsteady and his body tremulous at the sight of Harry beautifully aroused and stubbornly resolute.

Harry took another step closer anyway, closing the gap between them again as if stalking his prey. Lifting his arm, he slowly reached out to Ron, who just stood there this time. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The room was chilled with the night air, but he felt much too warm. Then Harry’s fingertips brushed against his arm as he came even closer. Ron jerked back to life at the feel of those unnaturally warm fingers. Glaring at Harry with a sudden anger that that didn’t warrant the occasion of being offered what he’d long wanted, he shoved Harry backwards so that the smaller wizard stumbled slightly.

“Stop it!” Ron hissed as Harry spread his arms wide, palms up to Ron in a gesture of surrender. His head was turned to the side, jaw clenched, his features resigned for a moment before he slowly faced Ron again and penetrated him with that stare. His mouth was a grim line of determination, but otherwise, his features were composed again, the mask back in place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His hands slowly dropped back to his sides, and then in that same slow way, he sank to his knees in front of Ron. Staring up at him now, those eyes pleaded with him. “Please don’t turn me away, Ron. I need you… I need you tonight,” he begged.

His hand came up again while Ron stared down at him, open mouthed, nearly swaying on the spot. His whole body throbbed with desire for Harry. Kneeling in front of Ron, Harry pleaded with his words, surrendering, yet demanding Ron’s surrender at the same time.

Without his invitation, Ron was irresistibly reminded of seeing Harry naked and on his knees like this before, on the dirt floor of the Malfoy cellar. Pleading then, too, he’d begged Bellatrix for their lives, begged her to spare them from the cruelty she and the others had inflicted on him. Then, another unwelcome memory came to him, another scene of desperation.  Ron saw Harry once more like this, on his knees in the bathroom, begging Ron to help him after Dobby died. He’d wanted Ron to hurt him then.

“ _I need it to hurt, Ron_.” He’d said. 

That’s what he wanted tonight, too, Ron realized with certainty. Harry was looking for something to take the edge off his fear of what tomorrow would bring, or of what his subconscious had tormented him with tonight. He didn’t crave sex. He craved pain, or a different kind of fear to drown out the rest. But fuck that!  Ron wasn’t going to oblige him. Not like this.

“You don’t want me to fuck you. You want me to hurt you, don’t you? That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” he accused, his conviction making him feel sick, like he had when he discovered that Harry had been cutting himself over and over again for relief.

Harry shook his head in denial, but Ron didn’t believe him.

“I don’t want this, Harry,” he lied.

“Yes, you do. You’ve wanted to be inside me from the very first time you ever snogged me. You would have taken me then and every night since then if I hadn’t stopped you. We both know it. So what’s changed?”

“Not… not like this,” Ron whispered, which was the complete truth. This was all wrong. This was not how this was supposed to happen between them.

“How then? I’m willingly offering you what you want, Ron. Even begging you, just like wanted me to. What more do I have to do?” Then those warm fingers were on him again, sliding up the back of his thigh to the hem of his boxer shorts before Harry laid his palm flat against him. The heat was almost searing on Ron’s bare leg.

Snapping his mouth shut against the moan in his throat, a shudder ran through Ron, a spasm of fear and desire, of desperate longing. Harry watched the conflict within him, watched his resolve crumbling as he kneeled before him, his eyes never wavering from Ron’s.

 Ron realized hopelessly that Harry had finally come to understand how much power he held over him. He’d discovered how to wield it. Harry had learned exactly how to play him, capitalizing on Ron’s weakness for him. Harry was manipulating him, asking for what he knew Ron wanted to get what he really wanted, which Ron knew in his heart was something entirely different.

“I need you, Ron. Please. I’ll do anything… I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he whispered when Ron remained silent, jaw all but clenched. “You can psychoanalyze me, later. I know you want to, but fuck me first… please. Give me back what they took from me, Ron. Give me back the power they stole.”

“Nooooo,” Ron moaned. “I can’t, Harry.”

If only he could. Without hesitation, he would reach into his own chest, rip out his still beating heart and hand it to Harry if he thought it would make him whole again. But this? What he was asking? Ron feared it would only destroy Harry more, and him and Hermione right along with him. Yet, if he refused, Harry would likely find another method to relieve the pressure inside him, probably with the pointy edge of a cold steel blade.

“You promised you’d help me,” Harry accused. “You told me to come to you if I needed help. Well, I need help, Ron. I need you to help me now.” Not giving in, Harry’s hand went higher, urging Ron closer as he leaned in. Then he pressed his lips against Ron’s stomach, kissing him below the navel once before moving lower to nuzzle against the underside of his erection which was thick and hard, tenting the front of his boxers.

Ron couldn’t stop the desperate moan that fought its way out of him this time as the head of his cock tingled with the desire to orgasm at the feel of Harry’s lips and warm breath on him through the soft cotton fibers. Unable or unwilling to move away, Ron’s feet remained rooted to the floor. His cock was oblivious to his conflict. It had no conscience. It wanted everything Harry was offering.

“Let’s wait,” Ron moaned as Harry mouthed him again, blowing hot breath on him. “Just one more day… please, mate.”

Harry shook his head and stuck out his tongue, dampening the cloth with his saliva as he licked up the underside of Ron’s eager shaft. Feeling light headed, his whole body shuddering as goose bumps erupted across his chest,Ron cursed under his breath.

Smiling slowly in triumph as he stared up at him, Harry reached down between his legs then, to stroke his own erect cock. That’s when Ron caved.

“Fuck! You know I can’t say no to you, you bastard,” he growled, yanking Harry to his feet and crushing him against his own chest as he took possession of his mouth. “I hate you for this!”

“Liar,” Harry whispered against Ron’s frantic mouth as his hands slid over Ron’s arse to grip him.

Ron all but carried him back to the bed, where Hermione still lay sleeping, oblivious to the potentially disastrous decision Harry had just made for them all. Forcefully pushing Harry onto his back, Ron crawled on top of him before throwing the blanket back over them and shifting quickly down his body to engulf him.

Harry let out a startled gasp of surprise, before muffling it with his hand. Then it was only the sound of Ron’s wet tongue on Harry’s hard shaft and the rustle of sheets from his head brushing against them as he pulled on him furiously with his mouth. Harry didn’t make a sound that Ron could hear. His only concession was to shift his leg up and plant his foot on the bed, pushing against it and letting it slip back down again over and over as if he were trying to slide out from under Ron while he fought against the urge to thrust his hips against Ron’s face. When his climax approached, Harry’s stomach clenched and his body stiffened. Then he came almost silently into Ron’s mouth.

Ron sucked him dry and then licked his spent cock clean again before crawling back up his body. His own cock was aching, but he was half hoping that the orgasm he’d just given Harry would curb his willingness to allow Ron to bugger him. Perhaps Harry would simply return the favor with his own mouth. But Harry made no move to take Ron’s throbbing erection into his hand. He only looked up at him expectantly.

“It’s not enough, Ron. You said when your mouth wasn’t good enough anymore. I need something more tonight.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” he asked, giving Harry one last chance to back out of this. _Please say no, please say no_ , he thought furiously.

Harry nodded. “I’m sure, Ron.”

“Fuck,” Ron growled, but he didn’t hesitate. Rolling Harry onto his stomach, Ron pushed his unresisting legs apart with his knee before settling himself between them. Then he rested most of his weight on Harry, working his mouth and tongue over his neck and down his back between his shoulder blades as he pressed his arousal into Harry’s arse.  

Harry’s body stiffened under him as if bracing for the painful penetration, but Ron had no intention of taking him quickly. He knew Harry was really craving pain tonight, no matter how much he denied it, but Ron was going to do his damndest to prevent it. Instead, he continued to edge his way down Harry’s spine, massaging his arms, and shoulders to relax him as he worked his way down. 

Truly, he had no idea how to even begin to do this, but instinct told him that he needed to go slow and have Harry totally relaxed if he had any hope of not causing him pain. His head was completely under the blankets again, his chest against the back of Harry’s thighs. His own feet were dangling off the bed which probably made them look like one extremely long, oddly lumpy body if anyone were viewing the scene.

Harry had finally relaxed, but Ron was feeling more nervous as he slid his hands over Harry’s arse. His heart was pounding with excitement and a more than a little fear.  He was afraid of hurting Harry, of scaring the hell out of him. Harry went completely still, tensing again as Ron ran his thumbs down the cleft of his arse and over the tops of his thighs where his legs joined his body. Stroking him soothingly, rhythmically, Ron did nothing more until Harry relaxed again. 

Then he added his mouth, placing his lips softly against Harry’s skin in the curve of his back. When that seemed okay, he added his teeth, lightly nipping at Harry’s back, his buttocks and his upper thighs as he continued the stroking of his thumbs. He was applying more pressure now, though, pulling the globes gently apart with every pass. Finally, he added his tongue, running it between the crease on the next pass of his thumbs. Harry let out a startled gasp, and clamped down his muscles.

“Shhhh,” Ron whispered, as Hermione shifted on the bed again. His warm breath blew against Harry’s damp skin and he stroked him once more with his thumbs. “Do you want to stop?”

Ron could hear Harry’s head brushing against the sheets as he shook his head, but of course, he couldn’t tell if it meant continue or stop. 

“Yes or no?”

“No,” came Harry’s muffled response.

“Okay, just relax, then. I’m not going to hurt you. If it does, we’ll stop, all right?”

The swishing of Harry’s forehead was his reply. Ron took it for agreement as Harry slowly unclenched his muscles. Immediately, he went back to work. When his tongue finally made contact with Harry’s furled entrance, he yelped again, shuddering all over before groaning into the pillow.

Ron had absolutely no misgivings about touching Harry with his tongue, there or anywhere else. There wasn’t a single spot on Harry’s body that Ron didn’t want to touch and get to know intimately, to claim as his own. Harry always insisted on being squeaky clean for them anyway, nearly scrubbing himself raw before he would allow them to touch him, so that Ron had no thought of shying away from this. He wanted to, in fact. He was working on instinct alone, preparing Harry the only way he knew how. 

Harry tried to hold still and keep his muscles relaxed for Ron, but he was squirming, jolting every few seconds as Ron lapped at him, restless against the onslaught of Ron’s tongue as he worked him.

“Oh, God,” Harry moaned, arching his back and lifting his hips slightly when Ron added his finger, pressing against his opening, yet only barely penetrating the ring of muscles.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yeeeessss!” Harry hissed. He was shaking, his toes digging into the mattress as he spread his legs farther apart for Ron.

“Cool.”

Harry was humping the mattress slightly now, whimpering as he rubbed himself against Ron’s tongue and finger which Ron was still barely pushing into him in rhythm to Harry’s undulating hips.

“Ron, what are you doing?” Hermione asked then, finally roused from sleep by their antics.

“I’m trying to shag Harry,” he replied around the mouthful of tender flesh in his teeth.

Harry actually chuckled.  Ron didn’t think he’d heard that sound nearly enough recently, and it made him smile, too.

“Do you want us to stop? Are we disturbing you?”

“No, well yes, but I don’t mind.” She shifted on the bed, rolling onto her side to face them. “Harry?” she questioned quietly, a note of concern in her voice.

Harry didn’t reply, making Ron think that they were communicating silently, as they often did. Then she spoke again.

“Would you mind if I watch?”

Harry must have given another non-verbal reply because the next thing Ron heard was Hermione’s whispered, “ _Lumos_.”

Ron crawled back up Harry’s body and pulled the blankets down off his sweaty face. His hair was damp and plastered to his head, but his calves and feet were freezing. Playfully, he placed a frozen foot against Hermione’s leg. She gasped and scrambled to get away as Harry got to his hands and knees, readying himself for Ron. 

The idea of being behind him in that submissive pose, of taking Harry like that made Ron’s cock throb, but that’s not how he wanted this to happen between them, not the first time, anyway. He scooted up, stroking Harry’s back. 

“No, Harry. Not like that. I’m afraid it will hurt. I want to see your face because I don’t think you’ll tell me if it does, and I don’t feel much like getting my dick singed here tonight, understand?”

Snorting softly, Harry turned his head to look back at Ron.

“I want you to know who I am when I take you. I want you to look me in the eyes. If you freak out on me, we’re all dead,” Ron said seriously. “Get on your back for me, mate.”

Nodding once, Harry complied, rolling onto his back without a word as Hermione scooted herself up to recline against the headboard. She pulled her knees up to give them more room on the too small bed, her lit wand at her side to soften some of the glare. Ron stared at Harry’s face, which was now deeply shadowed, so that he couldn’t see him clearly.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked one final time.

Harry nodded again.  His own renewed arousal lay thick against his belly, evidence that he wanted some kind of satisfaction, but Ron required more than a mere head shake to take this further. 

“Yes, or no. I need to hear you say it.”

Harry met Ron’s eyes, holding his gaze as he licked his lips nervously. “Yes, Ron,” he whispered.

Damn at that submissive tone! It made Ron hot all over. Christ all mighty! He didn’t think those two words could sound so seductive. Harry was surrendering himself completely to Ron’s control, and fuck if that didn’t turn him on.

“Thank God!” He breathed in relief, crawling on top of Harry. 

Straddling him, Ron placed a hand on either side of Harry’s head and leaned down to taste his mouth again. Harry ran his hands up Ron’s thighs and grasped his erection, stroking Ron once before adding his own cock, pressing them together in his tight fist. Ron groaned into his lover’s mouth, bucking his hips as Harry worked his hand over both of their lengths.

Pulling Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, Ron rested his forehead against Harry’s and squeezed his eyes shut, panting at the feeling of Harry’s shaft sliding against his own while Harry jacked them simultaneously. 

“Tell me you’re ready,” he moaned, aching for relief. “I need you to be ready.”

“I’m ready,” Harry replied, releasing them both.

Again with the jolt of electricity at Harry’s words! Ron was so worked up that Harry could probably talk him into orgasm right now. Quickly shifting his weight, he allowed Harry to pull his legs out from under him, laying them over Ron’s and relaxing his thighs.  Ron ran a finger over the slick head of Harry’s cock and then down his length as he scooted closer, spreading Harry’s legs farther apart. 

“I could use a little help. How ‘bout doing that fancy lubrication spell again?” he asked, rubbing his finger slick with pre-cum in circles against Harry’s entrance.

As soon as Harry nodded, Ron began pressing in, wiggling his finger past the tight ring of muscles. Harry tossed back his head, arching his back as he let out a long shaky breath. Warm silky wetness from Harry’s silent spell coated Ron’s finger as it sank into Harry. 

“Relax,” Ron said coaxingly. “Just relax for me.”

He ran his thumb over Harry’s perineum, stroking him firmly until Harry’s muscles, still clamped tightly around his invading finger, finally relaxed again. Continuing the stroking of his thumb up to the underside of his scrotum, Ron began working the finger around inside him in a bit of a circular motion. When he felt that Harry was ready again, he added a second.

Grunting, Harry clutched at the sheets while Hermione began carding her hands through his hair to calm him.

“Okay?” Ron asked worriedly.

Harry nodded again, though his eyes were still squeezed shut. Ron held still for Harry to adjust again before sliding his fingers slowly in and out, working the wetness around.

“Breathe,” Ron warned him. Damn he was tight! “Keep breathing so you can’t tense up so much.”

“Unnhh… it burns,” Harry moaned as Ron added a third and began scissoring his fingers inside him to stretch him a bit further because his cock was going to be considerably larger. But as he attempted to remove them, the tip of his finger brushed against something that made Harry’s whole body jerk.

“Oh, fuck!” Harry gasped, staring up at him wide-eyed with irises that had gone entirely black.

It wasn’t an exclamation of pain, Ron realized. Intrigued, he pressed against that spot again more firmly, rubbing the tip of his fingers in small circles over it. Harry’s legs shook as he pressed his head back into the pillows and clenched his teeth so hard that all the chords stood out in his neck while he keened in unmistakable pleasure.

“Oh, my God, that feels good!”

“Really?” Ron asked in surprise.

“Yeah, stop or you’re gonna make me come,” Harry panted. Grasping the base of his cock, Harry squeezed to stifle the orgasm that had rushed him unexpectedly.

“Damn,” Ron said in awe. Harry had a secret button just like Hermione.

“Fuck me already!” Harry growled, shuddering and glaring up at Ron when Ron brushed against that nerve bundle again.

Hermione moaned. Ron agreed with her, Jesus, he was sexy!

Not needing to be told twice, he slowly pulled his fingers out of Harry to position himself at his entrance. As Ron stroked himself, liberally spreading his own lubrication and that of Harry’s spell over his cock, he slid Harry’s legs farther up and got to his knees.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, frightened now that the moment was upon him. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Harry.”

“It’s okay, Ron. I’m fine,” Harry assured him.

Ron was shaking as he pushed forward, breaching Harry, who hissed, bearing down against the intrusion. With only the head of his cock inside Harry, Ron stopped again to let Harry try and relax, though it was taking a considerable amount of restraint on his part. God, Harry was tight, and the muscles were strong, squeezing Ron, resisting him.

“Keep going?” he asked worriedly. 

Harry nodded his head in agreement, though the movement was jerky, and he didn’t seem able to speak. Squeezing his eyes shut again, Harry bit his lips to keep from crying out in pain, Ron was sure, as he very slowly began inching inside him. 

“I’m hurting you,” Ron said miserably when he was only about half way in.

“No… just… just full,” Harry gasped.

He shook his head in denial, but Ron knew he was lying. God help him, he didn’t think he could stop, though. Unable to resist the instinct to burrow his way inside, he strained to prevent his pelvis from continuing its relentless push forward because if he thought the outside of Harry’s body was hot to the touch, it was nothing compared to how hot his insides were. It was like his cock was being engulfed in an inferno of liquid heat. It was incredible.

 Harry was holding his breath again, the skin around his mouth going white as Ron continued to bury his length inside him, filling him up and stretching him open. They were both breathing hard once he was finally fully seated. Ron felt light headed by how tightly Harry’s body was constricting him.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Harry did, peeling his eyes open to stare up at him. He looked delirious. 

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth, nodding his head. “Ron… you’re Ron.”

The sound of his name on Harry’s lips made Ron’s own eyes glaze over and more blood pool in his groin.

“Tell me to stop, and I will, all right? We don’t have to do this, now or ever.” He needed Harry to tell him now while he still could, before he started to move and couldn’t stop. Yet even as he said it, he knew it was already too late. The idea of being denied the gift of his body was now an unimaginable cruelty.

“No, it’s okay. I swear,” Harry assured him, his teeth still clamped tightly together.

Yeah right. It wasn’t okay. This was traumatic for Harry, for them both, yet Harry was determined to see this through. Feeling like a complete jerk, Ron pulled back slightly, and then pushed in again as a tear leaked out of the corner of Harry’s eye, and he gripped the sheets. Harry let out a trembling breath as Hermione wiped it away with her thumb. Ron may have been crying then, too, because things got a little blurry for a second before he blinked it away and slid out again, a little farther this time.

He wanted to stop, to end this now, but just as Ron was gathering his resolve, already mourning the loss, Harry, sensing his reluctance, shook his head. Opening his eyes, he stared into Ron’s.

“I’m all right, Ron,” he whispered, now gripping Hermione’s hand. “Please don’t stop.”

Eyes still locked on Harry’s, Ron obeyed, sliding into that incredible heat again, feeling miserable from the pleasure.

On the fifth stroke Harry seemed to have relaxed some, finally letting go the muscles in his thighs. Relaxing his fist in the sheet and the one around Hermione’s hand, he took in several deep breaths while Hermione continued to brush the hair off his forehead and around his ear, murmuring soothing words to him.

By the tenth, Ron couldn’t continue with the agonizingly slow pace. Harry felt amazing, which only made him feel even worse. Grasping Harry’s now semi-hard cock in the hand that was still slick with lubrication, Ron clutched at Harry’s thigh with the other to anchor himself and began to move, striking up as slow a rhythm as possible as he tried his best to pleasure Harry. 

It was a bit difficult to try and stroke Harry at the same time as he was curling his hips into his body, but Harry seemed to appreciate the effort anyway, growing fully hard again in Ron’s fist. What he needed, Ron decided, was to find that spot again. Changing his angle, he shifted his position, leaning over Harry and folding Harry’s leg back against his body. 

Ron was rewarded when he’d evidently found it after a few tries, as Harry let out a guttural moan and his body flared with searing heat. Tilting his head back again with his mouth open, Harry squeezed Ron’s hand on his thigh and around Ron’s cock with his muscles, his pulse visibly throbbing in his neck. Panting heavily, he stared up at Ron, his eyes growing huge and black again with his arousal.

And then it was on. Whimpering, Harry came hard all over Ron’s hand and his own stomach after about a dozen more strikes to that spot, which was a good thing because Ron wasn’t long after.  Too soon his body was convulsing inside Harry with his own powerful orgasm. 

When it was over, and his vision had cleared, he leaned farther forward on his hands and knees, bending Harry double. His breathing still labored, his heart still pounding, he kissed Harry passionately, sliding his tongue into his lover’s mouth to stroke his while he went soft still wedged inside Harry’s body. 

He ended the kiss, but with his lips still pressed to Harry’s, he said accusingly, “You lied. That hurt you.”

Ron sat back up and eased his spent cock out of Harry, allowing him to relax his legs into a more comfortable position around Ron after having them nearly pinned behind his own ears.

“At first, it did a little,” he admitted. “But then… I don’t know what the fuck you were doing, Ron, but it felt really good. Where the hell did you learn that anyway? Who taught you how to do those things?”

Ron shrugged, feeling pleased with himself. “Instinct.”

“Well, you’ve got fucking fabulous instincts, then. That’s not at all what I was expecting. I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

“I’m just that great a lover,” Ron replied, smiling smugly. “I’m offended that you would doubt me.”

Hermione let out a snort of derision at his bravado, and Ron turned to frown at her.  “Hey, don’t take my moment of glory away from me. I deserve to bask in my own delusion for a moment at least, after that masterful performance.” Then he turned back to look down at Harry. “In all seriousness, mate, you’re amazing, and I don’t deserve you,” he said earnestly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

“I doubt that. But I’m never going to want to stop doing it now, either. Damn, you’re sexy as hell!”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, right. Sexy, that’s me.”

“You are to me. That was absolutely incredible, Harry. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to get back to sleep after that,” Hermione chimed in, now stroking Harry’s chest. “You two look so beautiful together, and I’m all hot and bothered over here with no one to satisfy me.”

“Help us get cleaned up, luv, and we’ll see what we can do for you. I might need a few minutes before I can give another masterful performance though,” Ron replied, smiling as Harry captured the wandering hand at his chest and slid his hand into hers before pulling her towards him. Ignoring Ron, Hermione leaned down and kissed Harry, sliding her hands into his hair.

Typical, he thought as he reached for his wand. Harry always got all the glory, the little, fucking amazing prick.

 

* * *

 

In the gray before dawn, Ron lay propped on his side, staring down at Harry who was right where he belonged, wedged between him and Hermione. He slept as peacefully as a babe, probably more restfully than he had in days judging by how worked up he was last night.

He had to be completely exhausted. He’d come twice more last night to Ron’s utter amazement, forcing him to question just how many times Harry could get off in one night.

“Is that another rhetorical question?” Harry asked sleepily. “Or do you really want me to answer because I actually know the number.”

“Christ!” Ron growled, rubbing at his face. “How many?”

“How ‘bout I just let you know if we ever break it, okay?” Harry replied.

Then he sat up and kissed Ron on the mouth before curling up next to Hermione. He nuzzled into her neck as she stroked his head. He thought Harry might have fallen asleep before Ron had even lain down next to him and pulled the blankets over them.

Ron wished he could stop time, twisting the time turner over and over to keep them in this place at this moment, safe with him as he watched them sleeping. But it was nearing daylight, and when the sun did rise, they would go to Bill’s and get Griphook before setting off after the Horcrux in Bellatrix’s vault. Ron didn’t know what would happen then, but right now, he had Harry and Hermione in his bed, and he wasn’t going to waste the time they had left worrying about it. 

Whatever was coming, would come. They had to face it, and they would, together. But right now, in this moment, they still had each other, and he still had another hour to gaze at them beside him and marvel at the gifts he'd been given. He didn’t plan to waste a single moment of it.

* * *

 

After a quick breakfast of toast, which was all any of them could manage, the three of them stood together in their converted drawing room. None of them voiced it, but each was hoping it wouldn’t be the last time they’d see Grimmauld Place. Instead, Ron tried to focus on successfully completing the task in front of them, trying to look forward to spending the night together in the tent, like old times. Hoping for the chance to be inside each of them again tonight under the stars, Ron wanted to make love to them both without the weight of this Horcrux hanging over their heads or around their necks like a noose.

He and Hermione were wearing clothes transfigured for the people they would be impersonating. Harry was in his traditional blue jeans, flannel shirt and hoodie, the invisibility cloak concealed inside his jacket and his Mokeskin pouch hidden down the front of his shirt.

Tucked inside his left trouser pocket, Ron’s carried his own personal talisman; the Deluminator Dumbledore had given him. Today was the first time he’d carried it since they’d met with Draco. It was his path back to Harry and Hermione, his insurance if things went bad and they somehow got separated from each other.

Hermione carried the beaded bag, packed with all their worldly possessions including the Sword of Gryffindor and the tent they’d borrowed from Bill. The sword was their only weapon against the Horcrux, the price of their payment for Griphook’s services, and the tent was their temporary shelter for the night, assuming all went according to plan at Gringotts.

“Don’t forget!  We don’t use these unless it’s an absolute emergency,” Hermione told them sternly as she passed out the Decoy Detonators, and they each pocketed two of them.

Her warning wasn’t necessary. They all knew the plan by heart. She acted as if they might lose their heads as soon as they entered the bank and started tossing them out in all directions, but it was only her nerves talking. They had no plans to use Fred and George’s devices as a distraction to sneak into the bank, but they were their planned ticket out and back past the guards at the entrance with Hermione, Harry, and Griphook under the cloak if the Polyjuice Potion wore off before they found the Horcrux. If it wasn’t safe for Ron to follow Disillusioned, he would hang back in the tunnels until they were safely away before using the Deluminator to meet up with them. Outside of that, they were only to be used in an extreme emergency.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best plan they had and the first time they’d ever made proper contingency plans if things got bolloxed as they so often did with these things. It made him feel a lot calmer at least, which was something. God knows they were all a lot more nervous for this mission than they’d ever been before, and for damn good reason. They each understood all too well what likely awaited them this time if they failed.

Frowning in concentration, Hermione raised her wand to Ron, ready to begin transfiguring his appearance. She would take the Polyjuice potion right before they Apparated to the bank to give her the most time possible disguised as Bellatrix.

“Wait,” Ron said suddenly, grasping her wrist. “Wait a minute.” Then he turned to Harry who was staring at him questioningly, eyebrows raised. Catching him by surprise, Ron gripped him by the head and kissed him, hard.

Harry’s hands came up, sliding over Ron’s shoulders to steady himself as the kiss lingered and deepened, while Ron worked to mark Harry thoroughly. When they finally broke apart, Ron rested his forehead against Harry’s, still gripping him by the head.

“I wanted to do that before Hermione turned me into a stranger. I wanted you to remember that it was me.”

Harry nodded solemnly as Ron stared into his face.

The weight of their looming task had rendered Harry mute all morning from anxiety. In contrast, it gave Ron diarrhea of the mouth. Harry’s approach made him look much more dignified and much less stupid, but Ron couldn’t help it and realized that it was worthless to try. He had too much nervous energy to bottle it up. While Harry stood silent and calm like a rock of confident leadership with only his overly bright eyes giving him away, Hermione expressed her own nervousness by worriedly double and triple checking her bag, and going over the plans with them over and over again like a mantra. In understanding, they both let her.

“Listen to me. We’re going to be all right today. We’re going to get that Horcrux and walk back out of that bank safe and sound. You understand?” he asked sternly. “And even if I wasn’t absolutely sure of that, Hermione and I’d still be right there beside you.”

Leaning into Harry again, he kissed him once more, capturing his lips softly this time.

 “I’m going anywhere you go, mate. Wherever the destination, whatever the consequences, I’ll follow you. Always.” He hugged Harry then, and Harry hugged him back tightly. “I mean, except to the loo. I’m not following you there. Well, unless you need me to, of course,” he rambled on like a moron, unable to stop babbling as he stalled for more time with them.

“Way to ruin a moment, Ron,” Hermione sighed.

“I truly hope that won’t be necessary anymore… Ever!” Harry replied softly. “But thank you, Ron. I mean it. Thank you both for… well… everything.”

“Okay,” Ron said, nodding once. His body was relaxing and his insides were calming for the first time all morning at the reassuring sound of Harry’s hoarse voice. Then he turned back to Hermione. “I think I’m ready now.”

Hermione nodded, her face wet with tears.

 “I love you,” Ron whispered as he wiped them from her face with his thumb before kissing her, too. “I love you both.”

“You two are my heart and my soul,” Hermione said tremulously, gripping both of their hands in hers. “Wherever you lead, Harry, Ron and I will gladly follow. Whether it be to our end or to our salvation we will forever be beside you on this path.”

Leaning down, Harry kissed her cheek before he straightened back up, his emotions masked in steely resolve. “Then let’s do this,” he said grimly.

 

~.~  The End  ~.~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers –
> 
> This brings us back into canon events of their break in at Gringotts and the battle of Hogwarts that follows. I have no intention of re-writing those scenes as I could never presume to do them justice, and it would probably take me longer to write than Rowling did penning the entire series. 
> 
> This has just been my little sojourn into darkness with the trio and back out again, which took much longer than I intended and covered more than I ever expected it would when I began. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. However, I’m not completely done. Epilogues will follow as a final farewell to my favorite literary characters of all time. Thank you so much for reading and especially for reviewing. It’s been a journey that I have dearly loved.
> 
> – Greycie


	44. Epilogue 1.  The Aftermath of War

In the infinitesimal space between breaths, or the distance between heartbeats, there was suddenly complete silence in the rubble that was once the Great Hall, as if the assembled mass all waited to blink. The hundreds of spectators had all been struck momentarily dumb when The Dark Lord fell. But then, after the initial shock had worn off and everyone realized that it was suddenly all over, that the most feared dark wizard in a century lay dead at Harry’s feet, it was as if there was a collective intake of breath, exhaled in one tremendous, joyous shout that rang out, echoing in the cavernous room and down the empty corridors. Voldemort was finished in one curse, his own curse, which Harry had rebounded back on him with a simple—some had called his signature—disarming spell. And just like that, the battle had ended. The war was over.

Then the astounded crowd rushed Harry, she and Ron among them. Swept up and carried forward on a tide of jubilant emotions, they were all caught up in a cacophony of sound and emotion that swirled around them and grew more frenetic as they all struggled towards him. The suffocating wall of ecstatic survivors fought to get near Harry, jostling with each other to touch him, their savior. Pulling at his clothes, they pressed in on him as they cheered or cried while he stared, not in triumph, but stunned and a little frightened, around at them all. Then Hagrid was beside him, having pushed his way easily through the crowd with his sheer size. Harry looked up at him with those wide, exhausted, green eyes. 

Fat tears were rolling down Hagrid’s face, and Harry’s welled up, too, as he reached his arms up to the half giant, still clutching both wands in his fist. Perhaps Harry was hoping for his own salvation then as Hagrid lifted him off his feet and out of reach of the grasping throng. Just as he’d lifted Harry as a crying infant from the rubble of his destroyed childhood home, and as an eleven-year-old boy from the oppression of his relatives, and as the fallen hero from the Forbidden Forest after his sacrifice, returning him once again to the world in which he truly belonged.

Holding Harry in his arms like a child with his feet dangling more than a foot off the floor, Harry’s first and oldest friend in the magical world crushed the much smaller wizard against his massive chest, hugging him and howling up at the ceiling with misery, or relief, or jubilation. Hermione couldn’t tell.

“Harry… oh, Harry,” Hagrid cried, holding Harry tightly to him in a bear hug and stroking the back of Harry’s head with his huge hand. “Ye’r a great… great man… like Dumbledore! Ye’r parents would be so proud!” Then he couldn’t speak anymore, dissolving into tears, his whole body shaking with his loud sobs while Harry clung to him, his face hidden in Hagrid’s great shaggy beard.

The mass of humanity seemed to have come to their senses then. Stepping back, all of them watched the embracing pair for a moment before they began to turn to each other in comfort or celebration, either hugging total strangers, or else pushing through the throng of bodies in search of their loved ones.

Still being buffeted by the crowd, she and Ron stared up at Hagrid, who quite possibly was strangling the life out of their poor, battle fatigued friend. Ron slipped his hand into hers, both of them crying, overwhelmed that their long journey was finally over, shocked and so thankful that they’d all survived it.

It was a miracle, actually. Certainly, there had been a moment when the Caterwauling Charm was blaring in Hogsmeade and the Death Eaters and Dementors were closing in while they huddled together under the Invisibility Cloak that she was sure signaled their end. Harry had been forced to cast his stag Patronus and then stared hard into her face, steeling himself for the task he’d promised her to perform when it seemed there was no way out. Then another miracle had occurred and Harry was spared that agony by Dumbledore’s brother when Abeforth rescued them by smuggling them into his bar and finally convincing their pursuers that Harry’s Patronus was his own. Once they knew they were safe, still under the cloak Harry staggered into her, his face and body sagging with relief, clinging to her as if all the air had left him suddenly and his muscles were too weak to support him. It was much like he looked now held in Hagrid’s arms.

 “Hagrid,” Harry wheezed weakly, finally pulling back and wiping at his soot smudged face. “You… you’re breaking my ribs.”

Hagrid gave him a watery grin, the skin around his black eyes crinkling, and kissed Harry’s cheek before putting him down. “It’s blood miracle ye’r alive! But I’m so proud of yea. I always knew ye’r could beat ‘im, Harry,” Hagrid praised him, wiping at his own tear stained face. Then he cuffed Harry on the back of the head affectionately, sending Harry stumbling into her and Ron, before turning and picking up a startled Professor McGonagall with a triumphant roar and twirling her around while she shrieked like a little girl.

“I’m going to beat the hell out of you later for ditching us again without a word and going out there alone, you dumb bastard!” Ron shouted into Harry’s ear over the tumult.

Harry just nodded wearily, sliding his arm around Hermione’s waist and laying his head on Ron’s shoulder, unconcerned for the first time about touching them in public, or simply too tired to care in this moment of overwhelming relief. Their arms went around him then, holding him up.

That image of the three of them embracing had been captured by a spectator and was plastered on the front page of the special edition Daily Prophet that ran later that morning with the headline; ' ** _Chosen One Triumphs! Dark Lord's Reign has Ended._** ' Oblivious in the moment, however, the three of them clung gratefully to each other for a long time as the revelry swirled around them, and the sun dawned over the rubble of Hogwarts on their first day of freedom.

Harry stayed on his feet as the three of them milled through the crowd, receiving the survivor’s gratitude, listening to their grief, hearing their tales, and then when he was almost too fatigued to stand up any longer, they left the Great Hall. They passed a knot of people gathered around Hagrid, listening to his firsthand account of what he’d witnessed in the forest.

“I watched ‘im kill Harry. He just stood there, unarmed, and took that curse… straight in the chest, an’ all...” Hermione heard Hagrid tell his eager listeners as they passed, pointing at the center of his own massive chest to demonstrate. She turned to look at Harry with concern and saw Ron’s face darken and mouth tighten into a frown, but Harry acted as if he hadn’t heard Hagrid’s revelation. Several people in the crowd looked around at the three of them in awe as they passed, but they paid them no mind.

As he led them slowly to the Headmaster’s office, Harry reluctantly told them his own tale, answering some questions while avoiding others when they’d pressed him for details. Then finally, after speaking with Dumbledore’s portrait and repairing the damage to his beloved wand, still under his own power, Harry walked through the rubble strewn corridors down to the infirmary.

Nearly all the beds were full. Madame Pomfrey was busily tending to her flood of patients with the aid of several volunteers, but she looked up wearily when Harry pushed open the door. Straightening up when she saw him, she hurried to the edge of the bed, her expression unreadable with the mixture of emotions crossing her haggard face.

“Oh, Harry!” she whispered, putting a trembling hand to her lips. “You beautiful… you wonderful man!” Tears welled in her eyes as Harry shuffled towards her while everyone in the infirmary stopped what they were doing, helpers and patients alike, and watched his slow progress up the aisle in reverent silence.

Harry didn’t reply, but walked straight into her arms, circling her waist tightly and burrowing his face into her neck.

“And here I was thinking I was going to go a whole year at Hogwarts without you darkening my doorway,” she told him with a watery chuckle, petting his head in tender affection.

“I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey,” he mumbled into her neck.

“Poppy, dear,” she corrected him, sniffing back her emotions as she rubbed his back in small, soothing circles.

“Poppy… I’m sorry, but I think I’ve made a mess of myself again,” he continued in a soft, strained voice. “If you could please… I need you to take care of me just one more time… if it’s not too much trouble.”

Bursting into tears then, the healer clutched Harry tightly to her. Tears slid from Hermione’s eyes, too, as Madame Pomfrey led their exhausted friend over to a vacant bed near her office and helped him sit down.

Ron and Hermione crowded around him, concern on their faces at the news that he was injured as the healer, returning to her professional manner, pulled off his jacket and pushed him back onto the bed before removing his trainers. Harry must have been wounded pretty badly to force him into the admission and to willingly seek out the healer’s aid.  Under normal circumstances, he would’ve suffered in silence until the truth was pulled from him. Even then, he would fight any attempt to drag him to the infirmary to be looked over.

“I’m going to be all right,” he assured them through half lidded eyes.

“Of course you will,” Madame Pomfrey agreed briskly, but there was worry on her face as she began hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt while Hermione pulled the privacy curtain to block out the stares from the other patients and volunteer helpers.

Harry smiled weakly before grabbing the healer’s wrist. “I’ll be good this time. I swear. I’ll do whatever you say, but none of Snape’s awful potion, okay? And no pain potion either, please.”

“I know,” she agreed with a sad smile. “You can handle your own pain. Now let me see what those wretched people have done to you, my dear.”

“Thank you, Madame… Poppy,” he said in relief, releasing her wrist and letting his hand fall limply to the bed. “And before you ask, it was worth it this time, too,” he added. Then his eyes drooped closed. “’M just so tired.”

While celebrations went on throughout the countryside, the three of them spent the first couple days of that remarkable freedom in a most unremarkable way, but certainly not in an unfamiliar way. 

Harry had a fist sized, bone deep bruise to the center of his chest from Voldemort’s second killing curse which had torn into him, burning the flesh, cracking a few of his ribs again and collapsing one of his smoke singed lungs. The injury came as a surprise to them, but not Harry’s ability to battle through it for so long. It would leave another scar, one final reminder of his terrible struggle to defeat Voldemort.

Treated for minor cuts, smoke inhalation, burns, and bruises themselves, Hermione and Ron sat in a curtained off corner of the infirmary having Harry cared for exclusively by Madame Pomfrey, while they took turns sleeping in a chair beside him and comforting each other over their shared grief. 

Suffering from exhaustion, Harry slept for two solid days without even being sedated by a potion as the two of them fended off well-wishers, the press, the Ministry, friends, family and curious onlookers eager to get a glimpse of him, all while under the constantly watchful eye of the Auror stationed at Harry’s bedside. Then, when he finally awoke, and before they’d hardly had an opportunity to even ask if he was all right, they were whisked off to the Ministry to be questioned, despite Madame Pomfrey’s outraged protests.

Still clad in his pajamas, his chest still wrapped tightly in bandages under his nightshirt to protect his healing ribs and his hair a wild mess, Harry was only allowed enough time to quickly assure the healer that he’d be fine while stuffing his feet into his trainers and pulling on his jacket before they were hurried out of the infirmary.

The Ministry had tried to get statements from Ron and her while Harry slept, but they had both flat refused to leave his side, or answer any of their questions before he woke. Possibly under normal circumstances, the Ministry would not have allowed them to ignore a direct summons, but Kingsley was the acting Minister of Magic, and therefore, much more lenient with them than, perhaps, Scrimgeour or Fudge might have been. Yet even with the prospect of a much friendlier Minister, there was still a great deal of reluctance on all their parts to be separated and interviewed, but none more so than Ron. Waving his wand around threateningly, he’d done quite a bit of shouting in the faces of the Aurors who were attempting to pull Harry away from him, insisting they show him their forearms and prove they weren’t Death Eaters while he clutched Harry to him protectively. He became so belligerent, that Hermione worried he might be arrested for obstruction, or for the threatening of Ministry officials. 

He wouldn’t listen to Hermione or Harry when they’d both pleaded for him to be reasonable. In the end, the Aurors had been forced to call Ron’s father into the Ministry from his grieving wife’s side before things finally settled down. Well, not at first. At first, they got one more angry ginger added to the mix.

Mr. Weasley had come wheeling around the corner into the corridor where the two Aurors were still struggling to separate Harry and Ron. “What’s the meaning of this?” he bellowed in outrage, pulling his own wand. “Release my son!”

Hermione had never seen him so angry. Wisely, the Auror holding Ron immediately let go of him and backed away at the dangerous look in Mr. Weasley’s eyes. Ron took the opportunity to clutch Harry to him more firmly, so that Harry was wincing in pain from the strangle hold around his chest.

“Our orders were to bring these three to the Ministry, Arthur,” the one pulling on Harry’s arm explained.

“They’re trying to separate us! Trying to take Harry away!” Ron shouted hysterically, his eyes wild with panic as he looked pleadingly to his father for help.

Mr. Weasley looked Harry over, taking in his appearance from his sleep mussed hair, his flushed complexion, and his night clothes in complete disarray from the man-handling he’d been subjected to, before he turned back to the Aurors, his jaw clenching in fury and his face turning a brighter red. 

“Let me get this straight,” he muttered darkly through clenched teeth. “You dragged Harry out of his sick bed for this?” He looked positively dangerous, and his voice was a low, menacing hiss that Hermione had never heard in it before. “Do you even know who this boy is? What he's done for us?” he asked indignantly.

“Yeah, that’s right… I’m Harry Fucking Potter… The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One and all that tosh,” Harry announced with a weak chuckle, which made Hermione snort and everyone else turn to look at him quizzically for a moment. 

Mr. Weasley was probably worried for his sanity in that moment, but Hermione knew it was said for Ron’s benefit. Harry was hoping, perhaps, to dial down Ron’s hysteria by realizing the absurdity of the scene he was creating, but it didn’t seem to work as Ron only growled threateningly in response.

“Yes… yes, sir, I know who he is, but our orders were to bring them as soon as he woke up,” explained the smaller of the two Aurors.

“I see. So keen were you to follow orders that you didn’t even allow him the dignity of being properly dressed first before publically hauling him to the Ministry for questioning, no doubt in full view of the press? Did Kingsley order this, Williamson?”

The Auror, Williamson apparently, who’d released Ron, nodded his head, though he had the good grace to look ashamed of himself, at least.

“Well, I’ll certainly be having a word with him,” Arthur spat before turning back to Harry. “Are you all right, Harry?”

“I’d be fine, Mr. Weasley, if these two and Ron would stop playing tug-of-war with me,” Harry replied wearily, panting slightly from exertion and pain.

“Right,” Arthur said with a nod of his head. “Ron, let him go.”

“No. They’re not taking him!”

“Let him go now, son. You’re hurting him.”

Whining like a frightened child, Ron shook his head, still refusing to comply, but he did relax his death grip around Harry’s chest slightly.

“They only want to ask you three some questions. I’m sure it won’t take long, and they won’t be taking him anywhere else besides back to the Infirmary when it’s over,” Mr. Weasley tried to assure him.

Still, Ron refused, and it wasn’t until everyone agreed that Mr. Weasley would be allowed to accompany Harry into his interrogation, that Ron finally relented and went quietly. Then they’d been locked in separate rooms for hours and hours of endless questioning, for which their interrogators got precious few answers, before they were, at last, allowed to see each other and go home. 

Once they’d left the Ministry and Harry was properly released by Madame Pomfrey, they spent the next few days helping to bury the dead.

Voldemort’s death and their victory over his followers had not brought on the happily ever after of the fairytales to which she’d clung. It did not restore people’s lives to what they once were, or return their loved ones who’d died defending Hogwarts. It did not heal their hearts. The consequences of war were things that Hermione could not have learned without experiencing it. It was, perhaps, the only lessons she wished she’d never been taught.

She’d read about wars and listened to scholarly lectures about them in History of Magic classes. She’d memorized famous battles, heroic warriors, and significant dates, but she’d never truly understood the devastating aftermath. Foolish and naïve, she’d believed that everything would soon be normal again, and everyone would be happy once it was finally over. Focusing only on finding the Horcruxes and defeating Voldemort during this long year of endless battling, Hermione never considered that their fight might still go on even after he was gone.

No book could have prepared her for the painful realities of war, none could have given her the knowledge of its true devastation on the people’s lives it had left behind. There was no glory in burying your friends, your children, your brothers and sisters, spouses or lovers. No rejoicing for those lives it had tragically cut short, only sadness and heartache to be endured forever.

Like so many things Hermione had come to know: the electric feel of a lover’s hand against her bare skin, or the terror from the hot breath of a foe on her face. The true ache that accompanied the rush of euphoria with the words ‘I love you’ coming from the lips of her long awaited beloved, or the welling of tears that came unexpectedly and the stab in the heart that took her breath away at the sight of  her best friend’s face when she thought him gone forever. These things couldn’t be expressed in mere words on a page. 

The funerals of Lupin and Tonks were especially hard for Harry. For Ron, of course, it was Fred’s. But for Hermione, strangely, it was Lavender Brown and Colin Creevey that hurt the most. Hermione had cried for each of them until she thought there were no tears left inside her to shed. Yet all of them, Hogwarts staff or student, members of the Ministry, or the Order of the Phoenix, or Hogsmeade resident, magical creature and wizard alike were laid to rest with a hero’s honor, mourned and celebrated by the entire wizarding community for their contribution.  Still, it left Hermione hollow. But in no one was the devastation more apparent than in Harry, who’d been damaged the most and who’s suffering and loss was most acute.

Each person’s death had created another deep scar, leaving more marks on Harry’s ravaged mind and body, while she and Ron did their best to comfort him and each other. Taking shelter in the warmth of their arms and mouths and bodies, Harry grieved for all of them, yet he bore it stoically because he seemed unable to let it out. He could not, or would not allow himself the relief of shedding tears, perhaps afraid that if he let the first drop fall, he wouldn’t be able to stem the flow and would drown in his own sorrow. Instead, he’d gone numb from the agony of so much loss, for which he blamed himself. He was internalizing the pain and guilt, letting it consume him until Hermione feared that there would be nothing left but a empty shell.

Full of worry for him, Hermione quickly decided that what Harry needed was to get away from everything for a while before having to give testimony at the trials for the surviving accused Death Eaters. So they went in search of her parents, with whom she’d been desperate to reunite. Hermione hadn’t seen them for almost a year, having sent them away and charming them to forget her for their own protection. After witnessing the grief on so many people’s faces from the loss of their own family members, she needed to find her mother and father and bring them back into her life again.

They located them easily enough, living in Darwin on the northern coast of Australia, a city her family had visited and fallen in love with when she was a small child. It was a warm Sunday afternoon when the three of them knocked on her parent’s door. It was heart wrenching watching her parents staring at her with no recollection in their eyes while her own welled immediately with hot tears. At the first moment of seeing their familiar faces, her arms had ached to reach out to them, starving for their embrace. 

The reunion didn’t go smoothly, however. At first, they were confused when she removed the memory charm. Then they grew angry, shocked at the upheaval she had created in their lives. Unable to comprehend the gravity of the danger they’d been in and at her involvement in the war, they listened, completely dumbfounded while she tried to explain her actions and motives. Finally, their anger gave way to relief that she was safe. That their only child, whom they had just now remembered, was returned to them, filling the hollowness within them that they’d told her they’d both felt, but couldn’t explain. Next came apologies, and then forgiveness.

It was the dry season in the Northern Territory of Australia, which meant that the days were all warm and sunny for Harry’s first ever holiday abroad. Her parents led them on a tour of the city so heavily influenced by their Asian neighbors, and then to Katherine’s Gorge as they got reacquainted with each other, maybe for the first time with Hermione finally coming clean about her life in the wizarding world. She’d been less than forthcoming about the goings on of her life during her time at Hogwarts, and they deserved the truth from their daughter.

Well, she hadn’t revealed everything about all that had happened during their year apart. While Ron watched over Harry at night in a hotel room, Hermione slept on the couch at her parents to avoid any awkward questions. She was nearly nineteen, but still, there were only so many shocks to the system she thought her parents could handle in such a short space of time, and she intended for the living arrangements and her relationship with Ron and Harry to remain private, for now. During the days, she helped her parents with the daunting task of reestablishing contact with the friends and family they’d abruptly left behind, assisting with the planning and packing for their return to their previous life. Then, after tearful goodbyes, she, Ron, and Harry departed, to return to the chaos they’d left behind.

When they arrived back in England, however, Harry had requested that they make a quick visit to Privet Drive to ensure that his relatives had come through their own year of hiding in good order. She and Ron hated the idea, of course. Their brief sojourn appeared to have done him some good, and she feared that a visit, however brief, with his relatives might undo that. Naturally, they tried to talk him out of it, but when had that ever worked? 

Harry’s uncle had opened the door when Harry knocked, and before he could say anything more than, “Hello, Uncle Vernon,” the enormous man had clocked Harry right in the mouth and slammed the door in his face.

Throwing out an arm to hold Ron back, Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to stem the flow from his bleeding lip before saying, “Well, that went about as well as I’d expected. Suppose their all right then.”

They were both still trying to drag Ron away when the door opened again. Harry’s cousin Dudley stood there with Harry’s aunt, Petunia, peering at them warily from behind her son's massive form.

“Harry?” Dudley called to him uncertainly.

Harry turned around, but wisely, did not release Ron. “Hey, Dudley, Aunt Petunia,” he greeted them with a nod. “I just came to check that you three were all right, and that the extended stay with… you know… my kind didn’t damage you all too much, but I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry I bothered you. Tell Uncle Vernon I won’t be returning.” Then he turned again, still clutching on to Ron’s arm firmly.

“Your husband is a fat prick!” Ron shouted at Petunia.

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry said wearily. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Ron argued angrily. “Do those bastards even know what you did for them?”

“Yeah, they do,” Harry answered, his own anger suddenly flaring. “I disrupted their lives for sixteen years by being dumped unannounced and unwanted on their doorstep as an infant. And just when they thought they were finally rid of me, I’m back, making a scene on their front stoop again for all the neighbors to see. Let’s go!”

“Harry, wait,” Dudley called again. “Do you want to… um… maybe go for a walk or something and talk?”

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise for a moment. Then he nodded. “Uh… sure... okay. Once around the block then for old times’ sake?” he asked before leveling Ron with a stare that threatened violence if he uttered a single word against the idea.

Ron clenched his fists, glaring right back, but kept quiet.

Smiling, Dudley stepped off the porch as his mother gave a soft whine of protest. He didn’t even look back at her, but strode up to Harry instead. He glanced at both Ron and Hermione with interest before looking his cousin up and down critically.

“You’re voice is all strange and you’re scrawnier than usual, too,” he announced. “Are you ill?”

Harry shook his head.

“They’re not feeding you enough, then,” Dudley pronounced decisively. “I figured all this time away from Mum and Dad would have fattened you up a bit. You usually come back from that school looking better than this.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry replied with a shrug. “It’s been a really tough year.” He glanced at Hermione then in a silent request, and she nodded reluctantly.

“We’ll just wait here, then,” she said, giving Ron her own threatening glare when he’d opened his mouth to opine on the merits of this arrangement.

Harry nodded gratefully before inclining his head at his cousin, and they both turned and headed up the street together.

“You’ve got that thing of yours, right? In case we meet any more of those whatsits like last time?”

“Yup.”

“That’s good.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that, Dud.”

Dudley shrugged and walked on. 

“So, I see your not sporting another pig’s tail,” Harry remarked, glancing over Dudley’s considerable backside. “I guess things could have gone worse then?”

“I don’t have one, but I thought they might give Dad one, once,” Dudley replied with a snort before turning serious again. “Those people that was with us said you got rid of that bloke who killed your parents.”

“Yeah, I did.” Harry replied.

“That’s good then.”

Then they were too far out of earshot for Hermione to catch anymore of their conversation.

She and Ron were left to mill about the driveway of Number Four for about fifteen minutes while Harry’s aunt and uncle watched them cautiously from behind the curtains of their front window as if afraid they might vandalize their property or try and steal their car, before Harry and his cousin came strolling back up from the opposite direction. As soon as the pair came into view, the front door was immediately whipped open again and both of the Dursley’s spilled onto the front stoop nervously to watch the two boys approach. Ron growled at Mr. Dursley, but did not launch himself at the man, for which Hermione was immeasurably thankful because she certainly wouldn’t have been able to stop him without being forced to use her wand, in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, no less.

Harry stopped at the end of the drive, well out of his uncle's reach, and Dudley turned back around to face him.

“Thanks for coming, Harry,” Dudley said warmly. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you are, too.”

“Take care of yourself then.”

Harry shook his cousin’s proffered hand. “I will, Big D… I will.”

Dudley raised his eyebrow at the nickname, searching his cousin's face suspiciously for a moment. Then his expression softened and his shoulders relaxed, apparently deciding that Harry wasn't mocking him.

“If I get me one of them birds, can I write to you sometime?” Dudley asked then in a rush, his cheeks flushing slightly as his father hissed warningly from the porch.

“Uh… sure,” Harry agreed, looking surprised. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah? Okay then.”

“Just speak to the barman at the Leaky Caldron next time you’re in London. His name is Tom. He’ll know how to reach me. It’s on Charing Cross Road, but it’s kind of hard to find. I think your mum might have been there before, though.”

Petunia’s eyes widened, and she pressed a hand to her mouth looking horrified, but she did not deny Harry’s statement.

“Just wait for me there. It shouldn’t take long for Tom to find me. Then we’ll go to Diagon Alley, and I’ll help you pick one out.”

“Di-a-gon?”

“Yeah. You’ll need help getting through the barrier. Oh, and here,” he added, rummaging around in his pocket. Pulling out a Galleon, Harry handed it to his cousin, who turned the fat gold coin over in his hands, examining it with great interest. “Ask for a butterbeer while you wait. You’ll like it.”

“Are you gonna come through that green fire?” Dudley asked curiously as his mother squeaked faintly from behind them.

“Probably,” Harry agreed with an amused little smirk.

“Okay. Well, g’bye then, Harry.”

“Good bye, Dudley.”

Harry nodded one final time to his aunt and uncle before they set off again on foot to Mrs. Figg’s house, Harry’s old squib neighbor and an Order member. Then they used her fireplace to floo back to Hogwarts.

Once back at the school, with their brief reprieve over, they returned to the chaos they’d temporarily left behind, and threw themselves into the rebuilding of the demolished castle and grounds. The three of them continued to hide out at Grimmauld Place in the evenings while Harry still fought to come to grips with the loss of Remus and Tonks and Fred and so very many others, struggling to find his footing in this new post-Voldemort world, and his place in it. 

Harry was still so fragile, so damaged from all that had happened to him over the previous year, maybe from all his years. Their time away into the muggle world had helped, but he was still completely heartbroken, totally devastated and blaming himself for the loss of so many. There were many days where he would simply lie down and not be able to get back up again, curling up with his grief and guilt. 

It was witnessing him floundering under the weight of that burden, drowning in the enormity of it that had helped her decide. Many nights she felt like she was still quietly, helplessly watching him from the water’s edge. Evenings steeped in that stillness and soaking in that terrible silence had brought her to her decision. 

She’d never lost her desire to hold Ron and Harry protectively to her chest, to wall them all in together and away from the intrusive world. But they could no longer hide at Number Twelve, not now that Voldemort was defeated. There was no reason to remain hidden. Harry was right that they couldn’t just stay there forever and play house, but he wasn’t ready for the full demands of the world either, of the responsibilities they wanted to lay at his feet. Burdened by the expectations they all had of him to emerge as a leader, with the _Daily Prophet_ calling for him to unite them, to rebuild their society, Harry shrank further into himself instead. Their total lack of consideration for him was more than Hermione could take. She had to protect Harry from the vultures that wanted to pick over his carcass. Many of them were well-intentioned, but they were vultures none the less, and she would not permit it. 

Needing protection now from the people he’d protected, Harry needed time to heal his body and his mind. He’d done what he must, fulfilled the prophecy, and now he needed to rest, to recover, and not be held in the spotlight any longer. He needed to be ensconced somewhere safe, if not at Grimmauld Place, then at the Burrow, or at Hogwarts where he could get away from the relentless pursuit of those that admired and worshipped him, as well as from those who hated and blamed him. 

Harry was still receiving dozens of owls a week. Some full of praise or propositions, some asking for even more of him, and some in scarlet envelopes screaming that he’d not done nearly enough to protect them or their loved ones. All of them, good or bad, made Hermione angry. She seethed with rage at their ill treatment of him, as an object, not caring that he was human, too, that he was still just barely eighteen. They had no thought for what he’d already suffered, for what he’d endured for them. Each of them only wanted more; more from a man who’d already given so much, had given them everything he had, willingly sacrificed himself for their safety. So both Ron and Harry agreed to a final year at Hogwarts after her heavy handed persuasion. 

So many Muggle-borns, like herself, had been forced into hiding, forced out of Hogwarts that many students were returning to repeat their lost year. All of the first years denied their heritages because of their blood status were starting their magical education a year behind. 

They were joined by Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor, and unexpectedly, by Draco Malfoy in their delayed seventh year of studies. Others, like Neville, and Seamus, Ginny, and Luna had completed enough of their previous year to pass their exams — which were held a month late — choosing to go on to the next year, or graduate, which meant a bit of jumbling and mixtures of ages and classmates and a fair amount of chaos. Luna and Ginny were, therefore, now seventh-years alongside herself, Ron, and Harry, while Neville and Seamus left Hogwarts to start their adult lives.

McGonagall had offered Hermione Head Girl, but she declined as well as all other Prefect duties without a single pang of longing. She had much more important things to do now, and she’d told the Headmistress so, as well as talking her out of asking either Harry or Ron to be Head Boy.  So McGonagall had named Ginny to the post of Head Girl instead, and Hermione was nothing but thrilled with her choice. Along with Neville and Luna, Ginny had been a leader at Hogwarts the previous year, heading up the resistance against Snape and the other Death Eater professors with Dumbledore’s Army during their absence. Justin Finch-Fletchley, a muggle-born in their year and a founding member of Dumbledore’s Army, was selected as Head Boy.

Justin was also returning to Hogwarts after having been persecuted and imprisoned by Dolores Umbridge’s Muggle-Born Registration Commission, arriving back at Hogwarts perhaps with less naivety and easy trust as he’d had before, but still as the same friendly, slightly pompous, talkative boy she remembered, though slightly more morose now that his friends, Hannah and Ernie, had graduated. 

Reporters for _The Prophet_ , as well as several Hogwarts staff members and much of the student body, expressed dismay that Harry wasn’t named Head Boy. Even Justin had come up to Harry at dinner the next evening, apologizing, embarrassed to have been selected, but Harry would have none of it. He’d congratulated Justin heartily, told him he was relieved, actually, that McGonagall hadn’t asked him. Then he shook Justin’s hand in front of all the watching students and staff in the Great Hall. Clapping him on the shoulder, Harry told Justin as loudly as his voice would permit, that he thought he would make an excellent Head Boy, a good choice for leadership of this post Voldemort Hogwarts which was still healing the relationships between those of different houses and blood status’ along with the rest of the Wizarding world. 

Justin had looked startled and extremely embarrassed by Harry’s impromptu congratulatory speech, but pleased as he walked away, back straight and shoulders squared in a dignified manner for his audience of silent students. Many of whom were first years and likely idolized the Chosen One for his fame and heroic deeds, but had never glimpsed him in the flesh or heard him speak.

Harry had always been a man of extraordinary courage, but he’d become a man of very few words. So when he did choose to speak, people stopped to listen, which was unfortunately the last thing the limelight-phobic Harry wanted. Yet it was that reticent trait that lent itself to the air of awe and mystery that surrounded him and added fuel for the whispered rumors that followed in his wake. Embarrassed himself at all the eyes on him, Harry glanced up at the head table apologetically for the disruption, and McGonagall gave him an approving nod of her head.

“A blood traitor and a muggle-born as head girl and boy,” he muttered to her and Ron as he sat back down, red in the face. “Dumbledore would’ve been proud.”

Hermione snorted into her pudding.

“Still, I thought surely she would have selected you two,” he added, staring at her pointedly.

“Well, I for one am glad she didn’t,” Ron said around a mouthful of treacle tart. “Who needs that kind of headache.”

Hermione’s silence was her reply, but Harry didn’t need a confession from her to know the truth. His narrowed stare was his acknowledgement that he at least suspected that she might have had a hand in McGonagall’s decision.

Mrs. Weasley could hardly contain her pride at her daughter’s appointment, simply beaming every time she saw the badge pinned on the robes of her youngest child. But that wasn’t all; McGonagall had also named Ginny as the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team once the teams finally began tryouts, which had been delayed as the pitch had to first be re-built. 

Harry declined to rejoin the team, using the loss of his Firebolt as an excuse, and saying his arm just wasn’t strong enough for him to compete. But Hermione believed he simply couldn’t stand the idea of having so many people watching him. His heart just wasn’t in it anymore. He’d rather be a spectator now instead of the spectacle. Of course, that meant that Ron sat out as Keeper as well.

“The Weasley’s are still well represented,” Ron had said with a shrug.

Occasionally, however, Ron could talk Harry into a friendly game at the Burrow on their weekend visits when everyone’s good days coincided. They may not have been playing for the house team any longer, but they’d never lost their love of the sport.

When Ron and George, Ginny and Harry would take to the sky, sometimes joined by Bill or Charlie and once in a while, Angelina Johnson or Lee Jordan if they were visiting, the world, and its problems seemed to cease going on around them. That’s what it felt like, at least, to Hermione. It was as if the sun and the clouds, and all the birds in the sky stopped to marvel at the sight. 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and occasionally Fleur or Hermione’s parents when they visited, would bring out a blanket and sit with Hermione and Percy under a tree, sipping tea or pumpkin juice as the others soared above them. On those rare occasions, Harry flew as well as he ever had, as if flying were the most natural thing in the world to him, as easy as breathing.  Sometimes afterwards, when they would land beside her, kicking up dirt, their hair windswept and their faces pink, she thought that was exactly what he was doing. Breathing again; living.  Taking in healing breaths of freedom, he exhaled the sorrow inside him, inside all of them a little at a time. Those days, even if it allowed them to forget their troubles only for a few hours, were a reminder of what life could be again, and would be again. Today, however, wasn’t one of those days.

Hermione watched Harry as she slowly stirred her potion counter clockwise. Hers wasn’t the faint blue watery consistency the book said it should be at this stage because she was so distracted by the distress she could clearly see from her frequent glances to Harry’s profile. There were lines around his eyes and mouth with the firm set of his jaw. His pulse was pounding visibly in his neck. His complexion was pale and damp with cold sweat as his hands trembled and his Adam’s apple bobbed with the constant swallowing of his fears.

Looking away from him, she found Ron at the desk directly behind Harry and across from her. His forehead was creased, his mouth turned down in fierce concentration as he attempted to salvage his potion. The subject was never Ron’s strong suit, but he attacked the subject this year with stubborn determination, intent on making a passable grade on his N.E.W.T’s to qualify for Auror training with Harry. So completely wrapped up in his work, he was not paying attention to anything going on around him. Ginny was, though. 

Sitting at the table next to Harry, she glanced at him frequently with worried eyes, her hand hesitating to reach out to him, possibly to place it on his shoulder to calm him, but she reached for her wand instead. Prodding at the fire under her cauldron to adjust the temperature, she bit her lip in confused indecision. It wasn’t a look Ginny wore often, except with Harry, who threw her constant mixed signals, which ranged from merely cordial to warm and friendly, then almost ignoring her completely or avoiding her at other times, particularly when the moon was full. Yet he always watched her, too, with those eyes full of undisguised longing. Hermione saw it. Ginny did too, and it only added to her uncertainty.

Today, Ginny’s confusion was over Harry’s reaction to the potion they were brewing.  She couldn’t understand why it was upsetting Harry so, but Hermione thought she knew. She also knew that she couldn’t help him with this. She wasn’t the person he needed right now, no matter how much she wished she were. In fact, she was likely the last person Harry wanted to see. 

Hermione knew exactly what memories the potion stirred in him, why he’d reacted so strongly at the sight of it. The bluish smoke spiraling up from the cauldron on Slughorn's desk when they entered the room made Harry stop dead at the door, the color draining from his face. It was only a Pepper-up potion, but she knew it reminded him of another. It looked like the potion Bellatrix had forced him to drink, but it was also the potion Hermione had given to him after Dobby’s murder, and memories of that day would be equally painful for him to relive.

God, life could be cruel. The situations it put people in, the fears it constantly forced them to face were just so unfair sometimes. Hermione couldn’t shelter him from his own memories, yet she ached to comfort him. Harry would refuse Ron and especially Ginny right now, though, too. Forcing him to face any of them would only make it worse. Hermione was sure of it.

Glancing to the other side of the room, she caught Draco’s eye and sighed. He was watching Harry, too, as he frequently did. Apparently, no one had their minds on their potions today, all of them focused instead on Harry, except for Ron, which was a rarity. Draco was her only option, Hermione realized, though she wished that weren’t true. She didn’t like it, but she had formed something of an alliance with Draco when it came to Harry.

Shortly after term began, Harry had begun a violent, secret, he thought, relationship with Draco. Relationship was too strong a word, but Hermione didn’t have another to describe what she saw going on between them. Obsession, maybe, was the right term, at least at first, though it had started to cool now. 

It began, she believed, as simply an outlet for Harry’s anger. She didn’t approve of it, but she didn’t try to stop it either. She couldn’t judge him. Harry needed someone he could pour his hatred into, someone who could help him fight the demons inside him, and Draco appeared to be that willing recipient.

Hermione didn’t pretend to understand Draco’s motivation. She only needed to prevent it getting out of hand. More importantly, she had to prevent Ron from finding out. She was less worried about what Harry and Draco did to each other, than what Ron would do to Draco if he found out. Especially if he learned that it had turned sexual. Her own jealous possessiveness of Harry over all the simpering girls that attempted to catch his eye, or tried to waylay him if they found him on his own in the corridors was nothing compared to what Ron’s could be. 

At one time, that kind of attention paid to Harry might have been amusing to Ron, or made him resentful of Harry’s fame. Now, however, it made him furious. Once, early in the term, he’d had to bodily remove a scantily dressed and humiliated Romilda Vane from their dormitory, whom he’d then tossed into the common room full of, thankfully, mostly older students when Harry had found her hiding in his bed late one evening. 

“I can make you forget about her!” she’d shouted, angrily pointing at Ginny as she glared up at Harry, who was standing on the landing and staring down at her, probably to ensure that Ron didn’t inflict any permanent damage on the shameless trollop.

 _Not bloody likely_ , Hermione thought as Harry’s eyes went wide and he raised his eyebrows in stunned surprise. Not in a million years could she ever make him forget Ginny.

“I can make you forget her, too, Harry, if you’ll just give me the chance,” she added sullenly when Harry didn’t respond, waving her hand to indicate Hermione whose own eyebrows shot up in surprise while Ron growled a warning.

Harry looked for a moment like he’d been slapped. Then his face went suddenly blank, his eyes dangerously cold. The shock of finding her in his bed, and the embarrassment of the scene she was making in front of the whole house had been wiped clean from his face as he stared stonily down at her. 

“The only thing I want to forget right now, is that this spectacle ever happened, but I’m sure it will live in infamy,” he replied in a low hoarse voice, straining to control his fury. “It’ll be sniggered about in the corridors and discussed ad-nauseum in the Great Hall for weeks. And then, once you’ve sold your story, which I have no doubt was your plan from the start, we’ll have your detailed account of how I turned you out, splashed across the front pages of _Witch Weekly_ to endure for even longer. Enjoy the celebrity. I believe it might suit you better than me.”

He glanced once at Ginny who was sitting open mouthed next to the fire, and then at Hermione. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized to them both. Then he turned without another word, and walked back to his room while Hermione’s blood boiled with rage at the painfully public humiliation he’d just endured, that this heartless witch had just inflicted on him.

“Don’t you ever come near him again, you fame hungry tramp!” Ron threatened furiously, pointing a shaking finger in Romilda’s face. “You just stay away from him. Understand?”

“Oh, I see now. He doesn’t want to shag me because he likes boys. Is that it?” she asked snidely. “I guess I just don’t have the right bits to make him forget about you then, do I?”

Blind with fury, Hermione reached for her wand, but Ginny beat her to it. By the time someone finally had the sense to call Professor McGonagall, and she’d come rushing through the portrait hole, Romilda was covered in bogies and painful boils, howling with rage.

Romilda had gotten a week’s detention from the Headmistress over that little stunt and a much longer shunning from her Gryffindor housemates along with most of the other houses.  Hermione retaliated in her own special way, ensuring that every time Romilda got within ten feet of Harry, she would break out in hives and be forced to spend the rest of the day in the hospital wing. Still, she got off lightly. Ron had been unable to unleash his own brand of fury on her because Dean was holding him back in a bear hug while Hermione and Dennis Creevy held Ginny back. By the look in his eyes that night, though, it would have been the type from which you don’t ever recover. That cold murderous look was certainly the last thing Avery ever saw before Ron killed him out on the Hogwarts grounds after Hagrid carried Harry's body out of the woods and the battle began anew. And that was exactly the kind of reaction she feared Draco would be in for if Ron ever found out about him and Harry. Which was why she would never tell him.

She knew exactly when it occurred, when the relationship between Draco and Harry had turned. She hadn’t told Harry that she was aware of what was happening between the two of them, choosing not to expose his secrets until it changed. Then she felt compelled to speak to him, worried that he was letting Draco sexually abuse and degrade him. Hermione couldn’t let that happen, or allow Harry to let that happen. 

Since the war, Harry had floundered. He couldn’t keep his footing and constantly teetered on the edge of total collapse. Believing his life’s purpose had been achieved, he struggled now to find his way. It was Hermione’s job to keep him upright and clawing his way forward, but it was a balancing act. She constantly questioned herself, forever watching to see if the relationship he’d forged with Draco was pushing him back against the ropes, or allowing him to finally come off them. She changed her mind daily about whether or not to allow it to continue unchallenged.

Then she’d caught Harry sneaking out of the common room late one evening, just days after the Halloween feast, and she knew the time had come. Harry was stunned by her unexpected appearance, but quickly changed course, coming to sit with her on the couch instead of heading out the portrait hole. Curling up beside her, he lay down without a word, placing his head in her lap like an obedient dog. Knowing he was caught, he waited for the lecture.

 “You mean everything to me, Harry. Please don’t just give yourself away. That’s all I’ll say about it,” she told him, brushing back the hair at his temples.

He closed his eyes at her words, but didn’t attempt to lie about it. He only nodded his head after a few silent minutes. Then he sighed and rolled onto his back to stare up at her. Reaching up, he stroked her cheek. _“_ My head aches,” he whispered solemnly, “and I’m dizzy a lot.”

Tears sprang into Hermione’s eyes as he’d repeated the first words he’d written in the journal all those months ago to the healer while he was mute and still recovering. Though the symptoms he described were not due to dehydration or a concussion this time, they were still a true admission of how he was feeling. The opening line of his autobiography would undoubtedly read; _My head aches, and I’m dizzy a lot_ , a succinct summation of his entire life.

“I know, darling. I know,” she answered brokenly.

That phrase had become a sort of a secret code between them, a signal he used to convey to her that he was hurting and grief stricken, confused and in pain, or angry and afraid. He used it when he couldn’t articulate exactly what he was feeling, but needed to share it. It was his way of admitting that he needed help, his way of asking for it without having to actually say the words, and it was an expression of his willingness to receive that aid and unburden himself.

What usually followed were whispered conversations in the dark of night, the only place he felt brave enough and safe enough to give voice to the things that were troubling him. Hermione cherished those moments with him even though they were always painful and heart wrenching for her to hear. The fact that he trusted her to share his secrets, to be his confidant meant everything to her.

“Yes,” he said with a little half smile, “but not that bad.”

It was the second line he’d written in his journal, his next response during his exam to Madame Pomfrey’s query about the pain he was experiencing. He was saying the words to her now in reassurance, as a measure of his distress.

Hermione nodded as he wiped away a tear from her cheek with his thumb. Then he took in a deep breath, and began to speak.

For the first time, Harry told her the whole story about the night when he’d walked alone into the forest to meet Voldemort and his own end. He explained about finally understanding the riddle of the Snitch and opening it to find the Resurrection stone. He told her about seeing and speaking to his parents, and Sirius, and Remus. Then about afterwards when Voldemort had struck him down and he’d been visited by Dumbledore as he lay unconscious on the forest floor. He detailed the conversation he’d had with his mentor while that grotesque thing that was the bit of Voldemort’s soul struggled nearby. 

“I think I was dead,” he whispered, “or as close to it as anyone can be. It was either me or that part of Tom’s soul festering inside me that would die. Dumbledore said it was my choice, Hermione.”

Harry confessed his strong desire to stay there with Dumbledore, to just let it be over for him, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t over. Harry couldn’t leave his job undone, or leave it for someone else to finish. He had to finish it.He told her it was the hardest decision he’d ever made to come back to them. It wasn’t fear of facing Tom, but fear of facing his own future. Harry knew how hard the struggle would be for him. He knew he’d be returning to so much pain, and he was so desperate for it to be over.

He’d once tried to explain to her the distance he now felt from everyone else, and the difficulty he was having trying to find a new sense of normalcy. He described it by likening himself to the woman returned by the Resurrection stone to the besotted brother in Bettle’s tale.  He felt separate from everyone else as if by a veil, like a stranger alone in a foreign land, lost without familiar landmarks, unable to comprehend the language and confused by the customs.

 Hermione had understood. The war had turned them into soldiers. No longer school children, they were now world-weary adults in young bodies who’d seen too much evil, loss, and destruction in their short lives for their still developing brains to absorb. They'd been traumatized by what they’d endured. There was no returning to innocence after that she was learning.

“I don’t even know if it was real.” He sat up then, staring at her. “I asked him, you know, if it was all happening in my head, and he just said in typical Dumbledore fashion; ‘of course it is, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.’ But I believe it was. I know you probably think that’s crazy, Hermione.”

Tears slipping from her eyes again, Hermione shook her head. She didn’t think that at all. She believed every word. After everything she’d seen, after everything they’d done together, and all the fables she’d been forced to accept as real, in the end, how could she not believe him?

“Even after all he and his followers did to you, you still had compassion for him, didn’t you?  In the Great Hall, you asked him to try for some remorse. You tried to warn him about what you’d seen, about what he would become.”

“You told me once that the only way to repair your soul was to truly feel remorse for what you’d done. If you’d seen it, Hermione, you would have tried, too.  I know it. It was a horrible fate, even for Tom. I had to try.”

She kissed him then, marveling at how he could be wounded so badly, both mentally and physically, and yet still have a soul that remained so pure, untainted by the corruption of those that had tried to destroy him, able to still find pity in his heart despite all that had been done to him. Harry pulled her into his embrace, and when they broke apart, he held her by the face, running his thumb across her lips.

“I know you can’t understand. I know you’re worried about me, and I’m sorry for that. But sometimes… sometimes I can’t hold it all inside me, Hermione. The fear, the rage, the grief, Draco helps me work some of it out. That’s all it is.”

“I just want you to be happy, darling. Whatever you decide to do, or who you decide to be with. I just want it to make you happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

They’d stayed that way all night, talking, kissing, and making love wrapped up in his cloak. But it wasn’t enough. She and Ron weren’t enough. They never had been. Harry needed something more than they were able to give him, and she had to come to terms with that. Damn it was hard, though. Loosening her grip on him finally was the hardest thing Hermione had ever done. She loved him so much, and he was already so damaged from all that had been done to him. She could hardly stand it if he was letting Draco damage him further. 

If it were Ginny that Harry was turning to, she could live with that, would able to let go and be happy for him, even. She knew Harry still loved Ginny, but the most he seemed able to handle with her was a tentative friendship, for now at least. Hermione continued to encourage it, however, including Ginny as much as Harry would allow, even though she knew eventually he would leave her and Ron for Ginny some day, and it would devastate them to lose him.

Perhaps if he exercised his demons with Draco, purged himself of them, he would be able to embrace Ginny again, and allow himself the things for which he truly longed. God, she hoped so.  He deserved it so much. And Draco’s time with Harry did seem to be helping him, for which she couldn’t help but be grateful. In whatever twisted way, the violence between them appeared to be healing Harry in a way that she and Ron couldn’t. He was getting stronger every day. It’s what held her tongue. It’s what made her keep his secrets.

Draco rolled his eyes at her insolently from across the dungeon classroom, but nodded his head once in acknowledgement. Hermione sighed heavily again, worried about the decision she’d just made. Her message sent; she nodded curtly back before returning to her potion, hoping she hadn’t just sent Draco to his death if it was the wrong choice. 

The moment class ended, Harry jumped from his seat. Throwing his things into his bag with shaking hands, he darted past her and out of the room before she could even ask him if he was okay. Malfoy quickly followed, slinging his bag over his shoulder and catching her eyes again a moment in silent request before he was also out the door, leaving her to collect samples of both their potions to turn into Professor Slughorn and clean up their mess. Staring after them a moment, she wondered for the hundredth time if she was doing the right thing for Harry, before finally getting wearily to her feet. 

Ron came up to her when she’d returned to her cauldron, sliding his hand in hers.  “Where’s Harry?”

“He needed the loo,” she lied smoothly. Oblivious to Harry’s distress, distracted by his own potion, Ron hadn’t witnessed the exchange between her and Draco, and didn’t see him follow Harry from the room.

“Oh. I’ll go catch up to him, then.” He made to pull out of her grip, but she held on firmly.

“Let’s just give him a few minutes, Ron. He’ll be fine without an escort.” 

Ron frowned at her, but didn’t argue when she linked her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder as Ginny passed them. Their hands brushed, and Hermione grasped Ginny’s, giving it a quick reassuring squeeze before releasing it. Turning with a sad little half smile, Ginny unexpectedly planted a kiss on Ron’s cheek, much to his surprise. 

“See you in Charms,” she called over her shoulder to them as she left the room. “I hope you have Flitwick’s essay done, Ron, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Actually, that reminds me. Come on. I need to run to the library before lunch,” Hermione invented, pulling a bewildered Ron towards the door, stalling to give Harry more time with Draco before Ron could start a full scale search of the castle for him.

“You can’t be serious,” Ron complained, yet he allowed Hermione to lead him out of the classroom.

She looked for Harry in the halls in spite of herself all the way up to the library, and then again ten minutes later as they were heading for lunch. Scanning the Gryffindor table, her eyes were unable to rest until they found him finally entering the Great Hall a few minutes later. It was a habit she would never be able to break. He looked flustered, but not in distress as she watched him approach and sit down across from them. 

“You all right?” Ron asked him, his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed as he studied Harry.

“Yup,” Harry replied casually, plucking the roll off Ron’s plate and pulling it apart with his fingers.

“Where’ve you been?”

Harry glanced at the staff table briefly. Hermione tensed, worried that he would tell Ron he was in the library, which Ron would know was a lie. “Hagrid,” Harry answered and offered no more, popping a piece of the roll in his mouth and chewing as he calmly held Ron’s gaze. 

Harry spent a lot of time with Hagrid. The three of them came round to his hut at least one evening a week to have tea with the half-giant and to visit Buckbeak. So stopping to have a quick chat with him, or to see the newest creature Hagrid was harboring, was the easiest lie for Harry to give, or at least the one Ron was most likely to believe. 

After a moment’s scrutiny, Ron seemed satisfied everything was all right, scowling now as Harry swallowed his stolen food. Her body finally relaxed then, and she picked up her fork.  Harry did the same with hands that were steady again, she noticed as she watched him spear a jacket potato from the nearest platter and drop it onto his plate.

Glancing up at him, she caught his eye and slowly smiled at him.  He blinked owlishly once and nodded ever so slightly back before returning his eyes to his plate, his cheeks going pink.

God, he was beautiful.

They spent their evening working on their homework in the Gryffindor common room.  Hermione worked on Arithmancy, while both Harry and Ron worked on an essay for Muggle Studies. Though Harry hardly needed it, having been raised by muggles, the course was now mandatory for everyone, pureblood, half-blood, or muggle-born, alike, and taught by a new, muggle-born, professor after Alecto Carrow’s imprisonment and Charity Burbage’s murder before that.

Everyone who’d taken the course taught by Alecto Carrow was required to repeat it.  Hermione had already taken Muggle Studies in her third year under Professor Burbage and was, therefore, exempt. Though a pureblood, and not much good at understanding the muggle world, Hermione remembered Professor Burbage as a very kind, soft spoken witch, deeply concerned with, and striving towards, better wizard-muggle relations. It saddened Hermione greatly that she’d been murdered for those beliefs.

The three of them worked steadily, mostly in silence for more than an hour before Ron threw down his quill, leaned back in his chair, and declared that he’d had enough for one night.  Then he pulled out his chess set. 

They were both much better about keeping up with their schoolwork now, not letting it pile up for the weekend, so Hermione didn’t argue. Instead, she closed her books, got up, and sat on the couch near the fire to write a letter to her parents. Crookshanks jumped up beside her and curled up, purring contentedly  as she scratched behind his ears while the boy’s played chess, occasionally watched by Ginny, Dean, and Dennis Creevy. 

Under Ron’s careful tutelage, Harry’s eye for strategy had improved markedly, and their matches were becoming increasingly more competitive. It had become the evening norm in the common room for one or the other of them to have a game with any willing participant before calling it a night. They’d even held a friendly tournament one weekend against the other houses at Ginny’s suggestion, which was moderated by Professor Flitwick. The winner, earning her house twenty points and a gift certificate to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, turned out to be a third-year Hufflepuff, much to the young girl’s delighted surprise and Ron’s chagrin.

When their game had finally ended, Harry stood and stretched, grinning madly at the scowl on Ron’s face. “You owe me one for once,” he said triumphantly before punching Ron lightly on the shoulder.  

No one else in the common room would have understood Harry’s meaning besides Ron and her. Ron gave a nonverbal reply in the form of a rude hand gesture, which caused Harry’s grin to widen.

While they’d still been planning their assault on the bank with Griphook and spending their nights at Number Twelve, Ron had proposed a game of chess one evening. When Harry seemed reluctant, Ron suggested that the loser would be required to perform fellatio on the winner, teasing Harry that it would perhaps make him a better player. Harry responded by stating that Ron already knew he would beat him, and if he wanted a blow job, he could just ask instead of pretending there was some kind of competition and humiliating Harry first with a defeat. Then he said something that made Hermione almost snort her evening tea.

“Besides, what makes you think that having your teeth raked over my shaft could be some kind of incentive for me to play better?”

“One time!” Ron argued, outraged.

“Twice,” Harry corrected him.

“Well, how the fuck do you keep from it?”

“Dunno. I suppose having the person forcing you to do it to them, threaten to pull all your teeth out one by one helps,” Harry supplied nonchalantly.

“God Damn it, Harry! You tell me that kind of shite just to see me in a jealous, murderous rage, don’t you, you prat?”

“No. I told you because you asked.”

“Well, just shrug or something next time, for Christ sakes! I don’t need any more reasons to hunt down that greasy bastard and kill him with my bare hands.”

Harry shrugged. Still, he agreed to the match and, of course, it wasn’t long before he found himself kneeling in front of a grinning Ron, his head in Ron’s lap as Hermione looked on. Watching them together was one of her favorite pastimes.

If Hermione hoped to have the pleasure of seeing Harry get his reward for beating Ron tonight, they would have to wait until they were at Grimmauld Place this weekend. At Hogwarts, they never displayed any type of behavior publicly that would indicate that they were more than close friends. Not between herself and Harry, and not between Harry and Ron. 

It didn’t stop all the rumors, however, many of which were started by Romilda’s angry innuendo about Harry’s sexual preferences. People knew that she and Ron were a couple, but that didn’t silence the whispered speculation about the relationship between the three of them.  There was constant discussion of what they’d done together during their year away from the Wizarding world, and of what they did on the weekends together now, for it was common knowledge that they had, and continued, to live together when away from school. Hermione ignored it, of course, as did Ron and Harry. She and Harry, in particular, were far too used to the gossip surrounding them to be much bothered by it anymore. There was a time, however, when that kind of talk would have sent Harry spiraling out of control.

Rolling her eyes at their continued win-reward agreement, and wondering if Ron would sneak into Harry’s bunk tonight to pay the debt since it was only Tuesday, she watched Harry as he headed up to bed until he’d disappeared around the corner.

After packing away his chess set, Ron came to sit beside her on the couch. Picking up Crookshanks, who growled his displeasure, Ron dropped him into Hermione’s lap before kissing her on the neck while she continued to stare after Harry.

Hermione still watched him, all the time, just as she’d started in the dungeon during those terrible days. Maybe she always had. She knew she always would. 

He’d confided in her once that it was her voice he heard as the voice of his conscience, the voice of reason, and she took that responsibility seriously.

They weren’t Fluffy. Harry was right about that, and they grew less so every day as he grew stronger. But she was still his secret keeper, and his minder. She and Ron were there to protect him from others and from himself, to watch over him, to worry over him, to keep him from going off the edge. That’s what it came down to for her. 

It was her job to keep him safe, centered, and moving forward, and she would do it gladly until the end of their lives. Until one day, in the far away future, they would both close their eyes and go peacefully to sleep and either he, or she, never woke up again, boarding the Express that would, instead, take them onward to be reunited with the others that had gone on before them. 

Hermione slid her hand into Ron’s, and he squeezed her fingers.

“I love you,” she told him.

~ . ~

 


	45. Epilogue 2. Draco's Deliverance

Draco sat with his mother in what remained of the Great Hall, surrounded by Potter’s victorious supporters. Yet surprisingly, no one bothered them, tried to attack or arrest them, nor even insisted that they leave. He couldn’t fathom why, but he was grateful. 

His head rested on her shoulder as she stroked his singed and soot filled hair in such a rare public display of affection that Draco couldn’t remember it ever happening before.  Of course, nothing was as it was before. His father was dead, Bellatrix was dead, the Dark Lord was dead, along with so many others on both sides. And those that remained were left bloodied and bereaved, their lives forever scarred by The Dark Lord’s reign.

Voldemort’s death, however, wasn’t the excruciatingly painful passing given to his father. Nor was Bellatrix’s. They’d died quickly, possibly painlessly while his father had screamed in agony and gurgled his last breath. They didn’t die consumed by flames like Goyle and Rudolphus and Macnair either. Instead, they were granted a merciful death, which left Draco bitter with resentment. Potter had the ability to burn them both alive, to make them suffer for their crimes, but he didn’t.  

When he’d first pulled off his invisibility cloak after the Dark Lord turned his wand on Weasley’s mother, Draco thought he’d seen that glow in his eyes, that same wild fury he’d seen in the ruined, charred cellar of his home. Potter intended to protect her the way he’d protected his friends. He’d read it on his rival’s face and felt a rush of fear coupled with the thrill of excitement to be able to finally witness that power directed at Voldemort. Yet Potter didn’t channel that rage into a torrent of vengeful magic against his mortal enemy. Maybe it was because he couldn’t control it enough not to harm the hundreds of people watching. Draco didn’t know, but he was disappointed.

Like the Weasley matriarch dueling Bellatrix to protect her children, Draco’s own mother had protected him too, in her own way. Sending him back to Hogwarts shortly after his meeting with Potter and his friends on the Muggle underground train was her last ditch effort to protect him from Voldemort.  She’d taken one look at him when he’d arrived back at the manor and knew something had happened, something that put him in great peril, but she asked no questions.  She was afraid to have the knowledge herself, afraid she would be forced to give details of his betrayal to the Dark Lord. Yet she sensed there was something more he was hiding besides just the damage to his face. 

Giving him her wand, she traded it for the one Potter had left him with and insisted he return to Hogwarts that very day, telling him that she could convince The Dark Lord that her son could be of more use to him there, gathering information from the students about Potter’s whereabouts or news of his plans since Bellatrix’s torture of her captors had gleaned nothing.  Draco hadn’t wanted to leave her at the Manor alone, but he didn’t argue. He was dead if he stayed. They both knew it. Ensconcing him at Hogwarts would buy him some time, at the very least. It was her last hope of saving him, and he would not disobey her wishes. So he spent the next several weeks languishing in the Slytherin dorms, attending no classes or school functions. Then Potter came and set them all free.

He sat at the table in the Great Hall for a long time, hours maybe, letting his mother pet him, not unlike other mothers and fathers around them with their battle weary children. He watched the youngest Weasley, the girl he thought Potter had fancied, sitting across the hall from them, clutched protectively to her own mother’s bosom, just openly staring at them, as if she was in a daze, maybe from shock, grief, or fatigue. Then someone stepped in front of him, breaking his line of sight. Draco glanced up warily.

Potter was standing directly in front of them from the other side of the table, his two constant guardians a few steps back. Sitting up and pulling his head off his mother’s shoulder, Draco nervously smoothed the front of his burnt, soot covered robes as if he were being presented to royalty. His mother, too, straightened her posture and they all stared at one another in guarded silence. Then, without a word, Potter slid a wand across the table towards Draco. It was his own wand, the one Potter had stolen. The wand he’d refused to give back to Draco in the Room of Requirement before Goyle tried to kill them all. Potter was returning it to him now.

Draco just stared at the thin strip of wood for a long time, almost afraid to touch it. He was in awe of the instrument. It was the wand that had disarmed the Dark Lord, the wand that had been wielded by the wizard standing in front of him in a remarkably short duel that had finally ended Draco’s torment and freed his mother from her bondage. 

Finally, Draco reached out a shaking hand and pulled it towards him, feeling the familiar texture against his fingers. The wood was still warm from Potter’s grip. Happy to be reunited with it, Draco marveled at it, turning it in his hand, while Potter stepped back.

“I’m not sorry your husband’s dead,” Harry said quietly, addressing Draco’s mother without preamble. He was just as blunt as he’d been at their last meeting on the Muggle train. His voice was weak, full of exhaustion as if it were a struggle just to stay on his feet and say the words.

Draco stared up at Harry who glanced back at him briefly before returning his bloodshot eyes to Draco’s mother. “I’m not sorry your sister is either… but I don’t have any quarrel with you. I’m grateful for the help you’ve given me. Both of you. We’re all free now. He’s finally gone, for good this time, I think.”   

Regarding Potter a long moment with that stone façade she’d perfected, his mother finally nodded her head regally. Potter nodded back before turning and walking away, and that was that. 

He and his mother left after that and went home, returning to the manor that belonged to only them again, as if they’d just been waiting for Harry’s acknowledgement, for him to judge them and pronounce them innocent, absolving them of any guilt so they’d be free to leave.

Draco thought on those moments a lot over the weeks and months since they’d occurred, reflecting on his own actions and their consequences. He would never have thought he’d find himself back here, back at Hogwarts sitting in a classroom after he’d fled the grounds with Snape that night. He wondered sometimes, especially when he woke from a night terror of reliving his father’s horrible death again, bathed in sweat and trembling in his four poster, what his life would have been like if he’d just accepted Dumbledore’s offer of protection. Would his father still be alive? Perhaps. He’d surely be imprisoned in Azkaban, but he’d be alive, their family whole. Or would they all be dead now? Discovered and captured like Potter had been. All of them raped and tortured to death instead?

It was funny how life went. The choices he’d made, right or wrong, had changed him. The consequences of his actions, or inactions, had humbled him, and tempered some of his arrogance. Some of it, but not all, he thought as Granger looked at him over the cauldron of her perfectly brewed Pepper-up potion and threw her eyes in Harry’s direction. He didn’t need her pointed stare to tell him what he already knew, though. She was like Potter’s mother or something, but he’d been watching, too, much as he despised himself for it. Hell, they all did. Draco saw the tremble in Potter’s hands as he added ingredients into his cauldron from two desks away. He saw the beads of sweat that broke out over his forehead when it started to boil and bluish smoke rose over the top of the iron belly. He was seriously freaking out, which was just plain dangerous. Potter needed to blow off some steam, and Granger was clearly telling him to take care of that, the bossy bitch. 

_My pleasure_ , he thought.

The moment class was over, Potter threw his things in his bag and made a beeline for the door. Draco rushed to try and catch up, leaving the Mudblood to clean up after both of them. Catching sight of Harry’s messy black hair, Draco hurried to follow. Potter gave the password and ducked into the prefect’s bathroom. 

_Perfect_ , he thought as he slipped inside, quietly locking the door behind him.

He snuck up behind Potter as he splashed water on his pale face from the basin and bent, cupping his shaking hands to take a drink. Running a damp hand through that ridiculous hair then, he made to straighten back up. He’d see Draco in the mirror when he did, and without thinking, Draco pounced. Throwing his arms around Harry’s chest, he yanked Harry flush against him. Trapped, with his arms pinned down at his sides, Harry let out a yelp of fearful surprise.  

Draco knew immediately he’d made a huge mistake as Harry went stiff all over. He’d done more than startle him, he’d terrified him. He could feel the electric charge building in Harry, making all the hairs on Draco’s body stand on end. It stung his skin like a thousand tiny pins pricking him as Harry’s body hummed with power, but he was afraid to let go. He remembered the dungeon cellar of his home after Potter had finished with it. He remembered what they looked like when he’d finished with them.

“Whoa… easy, Potter, it’s just me,” he said quickly through gritted teeth, his lips against Harry’s ear trying to quickly talk him back down before Harry did him serious harm. “It’s just me, Draco. You’re okay… I’m not trying to hurt you, all right? Just calm down,” he soothed as he slowly relaxed his hold, though he was still pressed into Harry’s back. 

Harry whirled around to face him then so that they were chest to chest, murder in his wild eyes. “MALFOY!” Harry shouted into his face. Outraged, he shoved Draco hard in the chest, sending him staggering backwards. “You. Total. Fuck!”

Rubbing his arms vigorously, Draco tried to massage the stinging sensation out of them, trying to flatten the hairs back down on his arms which were still standing on end. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to startle you. I guess I wasn’t thinking,” he apologized. “What? Did you have a flashback or something?”

“Shut up!” Harry yelled indignantly. “I’m not talking to you about that!” Fuming, he pointed an accusing finger at Draco, who immediately raised his arms in surrender, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. “I could have killed you, you idiotic cunt. You complete fucking arse!” 

“Language, Potter!” Draco admonished in mock offense. “Do you kiss Granger with that filthy mouth?”

“Go to Hell!”

“You first!” he sneered.

They stared at each other a minute, Harry boiling with rage, his face red, his chest heaving. At least his color was back and his shaking was due to anger now instead of fear. It was a start. When he was fairly sure that Harry wasn’t going to attack, Draco lowered his hands and then smiled widely, bravely or stupidly stepping close to Harry again.

“I said I was sorry. Do you want me to say it again?” he asked with a pout, stepping in even closer. When he didn’t immediately get a fist to the face, he pressed himself against Harry, grasping him by the hips, grinding his growing erection into Harry. “Or I can show you if you like.”

“You're a git, Draco,” Harry growled yanking him by the back of the head. Their lips crashed together in a bruising kiss. Teeth and lips and tongues warred with each other, both of them trying to dominate the other.

Running his hands over Harry’s arse, Draco dug his fingers in the firm flesh, pulling him close to grind their mutual arousal together. Harry groaned into his mouth, and Draco knew he was forgiven.

This was what Draco loved about Harry, when they were together it was a battle. The physical struggle between them was like waging a war that left them both bleeding and exhausted when it was over and occasionally more seriously injured. It had been like this since they were eleven years old, and Draco loved every minute of it. Well, it hadn’t been like this exactly, of course, it had been a lot less enjoyable back then, but he couldn’t resist provoking Harry any more now than he had been able to then.

They were like magnets, on opposite sides of the war from the moment they met, almost polar opposites in every way. Constantly pushing against each other, they repelled each other until the events of their lives, of the war, changed them, altered their polarity and just like magnets then, they were drawn violently, irresistibly together. Bound tightly now, each was gripped powerfully by the other. It wouldn’t last though, Draco knew that. Once they got control of their lives, once they adjusted themselves to their new reality and healed the damage as much as possible, this would end. This dependence, their reliance on each other would be over. There was nothing between them long lasting, not affection, not friendship and not even hatred really anymore. Only a mutual attraction to the violence held them together. But they were already weaning themselves off the other, healing in their own warped way.  

Like a star in the twilight of its life, the intensity of their contentious relationship had built over the years growing white hot as it died, burning brightly here at the end before finally going dark. They were on the brink of that implosion, the star already in the throes of death, the intensity too great to sustain much longer as it consumed its own fuel faster and faster. Draco knew it, accepted it, though he knew he would miss it, too. Its absence would leave a black hole inside him as it would in the heavens. He would miss moments like this, and part of him was irritated about it. Not that it was going to end, but that he would feel nostalgic about it when it did, reflecting on it fondly like some Hufflepuff sap.

This was only a brief intermission in their lives, however. An unholy alliance of sorts where both of them took from the other what they needed. Once they were mended, and no longer had anything to offer the other, the contract would expire, never to be renewed again.

 “You’re such a slag, Potter,” Draco teased, whispering into Harry’s ear as he continued to hump him into the wall.

“Fuck you!” Harry growled angrily. “I didn’t go looking for you, Malfoy.”

“Yeah, but everyone knows I’m a slag,” he responded with a chuckle, still rubbing against his raven haired rival, as if to emphasize the point. “But you’re The Chosen One. What would the devoted readers of _Witch Weekly_ say if they found out? Think of your reputation,” he mocked.

“Shut up,” Harry snarled. Pulling Draco by his perfectly combed hair, Harry shoved his tongue back down his throat again, effectively silencing him, which was just fine with Draco. Like everything between them, Harry snogged like they were in mortal combat. It was fucking fabulous. Besides, Potter wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and they agreed on almost nothing, anyway. Their relationship had absolutely nothing to do with the philosophical and everything to do with the physical.

Draco was an equal opportunity lover, boys or girls, it didn’t matter to him. He was attracted to both, and they to him. Well, he reasoned, despite the damage to his family name with this war, he was still a Malfoy and a Black, both wealthy and well bred. What could you expect? People hit on him all the time, and if he was in the mood, he took them up on their offer. Nothing wrong with that, he thought. People could call him whatever they liked, he called it satisfied.

“What _will_ they print on your frog card, Potter?” he asked, sounding scandalized when they broke apart, still panting hard as he continued to provoke the formidable wizard he had pinned up against the wall with his own body.

“Harry Potter, also known as _The Boy Who Lived_ or _The Chosen One_ , famous for his defeat of the Dark Lord, known alternately as Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle or He Who Must Not Be Named, at the tender age of seventeen during the Battle of Hogwarts.” he recited quickly in a very pompous voice, trying to sound like Granger actually, when she gave an answer straight from the textbook to a professor while he ran his hands up Harry’s sides, dragging his shirt up and un-tucking it from his trousers. 

“Potter is the only person known to have survived the killing curse when, at the age of one, he was attacked by Lord Voldemort, who is widely thought to be the most powerful dark wizard of all time. The attack killed his parents, leaving him orphaned,” he went on, watching Harry’s face darken and his eyes narrow, knowing he was pushing it now. “Since his victory over the Dark Lord his ambition is now to become an Auror. He likes to spend his free time playing Quidditch and is known to be a very good Seeker. He also likes to shag his best mates and is especially fond of being buggered blind.”

He was sniggering now, his fingers deftly popping the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “Maybe you can pose for your picture on your hands and knees Potter with your robes flipped up in the back to expose that luscious arse.” He ran his hands over Harry’s chest, pushing the shirt open.  “Maybe riding your broomsti—” He broke off when he got a fist to the gut for his trouble.

“Do you really think I’m a good Seeker, Malfoy?” Harry asked, batting his eyes at Draco, in a parody of bashfulness before snorting with derisive laughter as he loosened his own tie. “Sounds like you’ve given my frog card a lot of thought. I suppose I should be flattered.”

“I said widely thought of as a good Seeker. I didn’t say _I_ thought that. Your Potter fan club certainly does, though, which includes just about everyone else in the damn wizarding world.”  

Harry scowled at that. That’s one thing he had learned, actually. Potter really did hate all the attention. Go figure.

“You’re just jealous they won’t be making any frog cards for any of the wizards on your side,” Harry replied. “Did you want a shiny little medal, Malfoy? Would it have made up for all the people that died? Would that have made you happy? ‘Cause I’ll give you mine. I’ll even polish it up for you, if you like, before I shove it up your arse.”

There it was again, finally, the anger he’d been trying to draw out of Potter. That glorious, green eyed vengeful demon that lived inside him was coming closer to the surface now. 

_Come on out_ , he thought, _Come on out and play_. 

“I wasn’t on his side,” he muttered, unable to keep from defending himself, however feebly.

“Oh, that’s right. I remember now. You chose not to fight on either side, didn’t you? You sat the whole thing out like the coward you are. Intent on saving your own skin and no one else’s, weren’t you, Malfoy? Probably figured you’d be able to sidle up to whichever one of us was still standing in the end, that way.”

That stung. Draco gritted his teeth, but said nothing because it was the absolute true. In the end, he’d fled from both sides of the battle. His only purpose, his only thought was of saving himself. And if faced with the same circumstances again, he’d probably do the same. He wasn’t like Potter and had no desire to be. Perhaps if killing curses just bounced off him like they did the boy wonder here, he’d feel differently, but he wasn’t. 

His mother had shared with him what had happened when Potter had come to meet The Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest. She told him how Harry just stood there, unarmed, and let Voldemort curse him. He hadn’t missed. The curse hit the defenseless wizard straight in the chest, she assured him. She said that he’d glowed green for a moment before he crumpled to the ground in front of them, apparently dead. Only she’d been sent to investigate and discovered differently.

What would possess a man to do that? What kind of suicidal madness would lead him out there? Unless, of course, he knew the curse wouldn’t kill him. But how could he? Sure, he’d survived it once before, but still, that was taking a hell of a chance with his life. Harry might think him a coward, but that went well beyond bravery. Potter had clearly been out of his mind, demonstrating the same casual disregard for his own life that Draco had seen that night in the dungeon. Even then, all he cared about was the welfare of his friends. Of course, Draco had also seen the proof on his arms of Harry’s willingness to throw his life away that day on the train and many times since then when those scars were exposed. Even now, sometimes, Draco had seen how tenuous a grip he had on his own will to keep living. It was a delicate thing.

Stepping back then, he stared at the hostility on Harry’s face, considering him. He may be suicidal at times like this, but Potter was still filled with that magnetic power. It radiated off of him, making him hot to the touch. It was that power which attracted Draco to him. He was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Harry had finally worked his tie loose. Pulling it through his collar impatiently, he then stripped off his shirt, leaving him with just the pouch he always wore around his neck, which sat directly over the mark on his chest from that final killing curse, concealing the scar from Draco’s view. Draco had asked him several times what was inside the pouch, but Potter wouldn’t say.

“Broken dreams,” he’d answered evasively once when Draco persisted, which only served to peak his curiosity more.

It was probably that stupid medal. Well, it probably wasn’t, but Draco liked to think so anyway. He liked to imagine a vain Potter coveting some of his fame. He wasn’t vain though, his appearance proved that, and he shunned the public. Hell, he was practically a recluse, which was a shame. What Draco could do with that fame, the power he could wield with it if it belonged to him.

“You’re so much more attractive when you’re angry,” he told Potter, taking in his disheveled state, his tousled hair and flushed face, those emerald eyes glowing. 

“Well then, I ought to be bloody gorgeous right now,” Harry snarled back. “Hell, it’s no wonder then you’re constantly trying to jump my bones every time I’m around you. You always piss me off.”

 “I’m not trying to jump your bones most of the time. I’m trying to crush them.”

“Well, it’s an interesting method you’re using. I don’t think rutting against me like that is going to break any bones unless it’s just my pelvis you’re trying to shatter. Perhaps you should reconsider your technique.” 

Draco glared at him as he worked his hand into Harry’s trousers to get his hands around Potter’s impressive manhood. He had a really nice sized cock, and what’s more, he knew how to use it.

“You know there’s no actual bone in that, right?” Harry asked, smirking.

“Shut up,” he growled, bypassing the belt and the fly to cup his balls.

“Shite,” Potter groaned. Resting his head against the wall, Potter closed his eyes against the feel of it, surrendering himself for a moment as Draco fondled him.

“We haven't got much time. So, are you tossing my salad or am I tossing yours?” Draco asked, arching one eyebrow when Potter had finally shut up.

Potter’s lip curled, and he opened an eye. “God, Malfoy! Can you be anymore crude?”

“I’ve got my hand down the front of your pants, fisting your cock and you’re worried about me offending your delicate sensibilities?” he asked incredulously. “If you wanted tame and loving, go find one of your other fuck buddies.”

Harry snorted derisively in response, which made Draco pause. He guessed, now that he thought about it, the tosser was in a fucking three-way with Granger and the weasel. Not that Potter had ever admitted it to him, of course. Despite Draco’s endless grilling, Harry had never confirmed nor denied that the relationship between the three of them was more than friendship. Draco was convinced it was, however, and the conviction made him irrationally jealous.

The three of them probably got up to some wild shit together. The youngest Weasley looked like she’d be a firecracker in bed herself. That wasn’t to mention the constant barrage of people who shamelessly threw themselves at _The Boy Who Lived_. The thought made him suddenly envious. 

God, Potter got so much action it was a wonder he could walk at all. He had to be rubbed raw constantly. Shagging Granger had to be like fucking an encyclopedia though, he decided, trying to console himself for the disproportionate amount of play _Desirable Number One_ here was getting. Surely it had to be just as dry and clinical. She probably talked the whole time, instructing Potter on how to stick it in, how far, how many thrusts and how hard. She was such a damn bossy know it all, he was sure she told you all the things you were doing wrong, everything you could improve in your technique the whole time you were banging her. Potter probably had to ram his cock down her throat sometimes just to shut her up.

Weasley, though, was a different story. The redhead had a certain swagger about him, a virility that he’d first noticed on that muggle train ride. Draco was certain that nothing in the way he fucked was probably tame or textbook. Ron was awful damn aggressive these days, probably in and out of the bedroom, and a real jealous bastard from what Draco could see. There was a reason Granger and Potter kept his relationship (if that’s what you wanted to call this) with Harry a secret. Draco’s nose had already been introduced to Weasley’s hostility once. The ginger brute would go ballistic if he knew Draco was anywhere near Harry, and he didn’t fancy having his nose bent the other direction by Potter’s jealous boyfriend. Harry did enough damage to Draco’s body on his own, but always stopped short of all out maiming or murder. He didn’t think Weasley would show the same restraint.

Still, he thought with satisfaction, he bet the weasel never bottomed for Potter. He didn’t look the type. Draco wasn’t really the type either, for that matter. Potter was the only person he would ever allow to roger him senseless. He was a Malfoy for God’s sake! But sometimes, only sometimes, he’d set that aside and let Potter fuck him until he came without even having to touch himself at all, filling him with that power until he was screaming Harry’s name, begging for more. He felt even more blood rush to his cock now just thinking about it, hoping fervently that’s what Potter wanted to do today instead of something like a quick blow.

Maybe the Mudblood liked to be bossed around in bed, he considered then. Lots of normally dominate people liked to be submissive in the bedroom. Take Harry, for instance. Draco was convinced that he was Weasley’s sub, and he was the hero of the fucking wizarding world. Hell, he was the biggest badass Draco knew. But the only person he thought Harry was actually aggressive with sexually was him, and even then, Harry bottomed for him sometimes. 

It was a very interesting dynamic the three of them had, now he thought on it. He’d like to be a fly on the wall sometime when they got together. How weird would it be to watch the weasel ride roughshod over the other two?  Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, and the smartest witch of her age letting Weasley dominate them. How fucking perfect was that? 

He shook his head to clear it. Why the hell was he wasting time thinking about Harry having sex with Granger and Weaslbee, anyway, when he could be having sex with him right now, instead? What did he have to be jealous about when he had Potter ready and willing in front of him right here, right now, in the middle of the day in the Prefect’s bathroom?

Eager not to waste anymore time, he pressed himself against Harry again and bit down on Potter’s lower lip, drawing a growl from Harry as his hand fisted in Draco’s hair. Harry jerked Draco’s head backwards, forcing him to arch his back as Harry ran his tongue up the column of Draco’s exposed throat and then latched on, biting hard on the cord of his neck. Draco moaned open mouthed at the ceiling and his legs shook in anticipation as he squeezed Harry’s shaft tightly in response. 

Yep, it was going to be one of those hate fucking kind of days, he thought. Brilliant!

Harry needed to let out his aggression, Draco knew it. He knew Harry’s vices, knew he liked it rough, knew he liked to be choked. Harry liked a little pain with his pleasure. Well, a lot really, more than even Draco was willing to give him sometimes, lest he fall over the edge himself. But Potter wasn’t afraid to ask for it from Draco. Not like he was with the precious Weasley siblings and Granger. When Harry wanted to get dirty and nasty, when he needed it to hurt, he did it with Draco. With him, Harry could make his own demands and didn’t really care about Draco’s feelings. It was a win-win situation for both of them, in Draco’s opinion. He did, after all, have his father’s and his aunt Bella’s blood running through his veins. He had a penchant for cruelty, and he could enjoy it.

Sometimes they didn’t fuck at all. That didn’t come until later, actually. When they’d first come together shortly after term started, it was to beat the living shit out of each other. The sex had just been a byproduct of that aggression. Their violence against each other escalating one night had finally exploded into a frenzy of sexual desire, where the winner of their wrestling match took all. Now, when one or both of them needed that kind of release, they seemed to sense it in each other, drawn together by their mutual desire for pain and punishment, needing to exact some revenge against someone they believed was the enemy or a close substitution at least. Then they’d just physically go at it, no wands, no magic at all until one of them collapsed. 

They both had so much hatred, so much anger at each other and at the world. There was a damn mountain of shit between them. When they’d finally exhausted themselves, they’d heal what they could and hobble down to the infirmary to have Madam Pomfrey mop up the rest, which she always did without asking any questions. 

Kreacher, Harry’s house elf, always met them at the infirmary doors with a tea service. Harry never summoned him, and Draco had no idea how the elf knew when they would need to visit the Healer, but he was always there without fail, whatever hour of the night with a greeting and a bow for his master and a scowl and a mumbled threat under his breath for Draco. Once, the insolent toe-rag even asked Potter if he would allow him to take care of ‘the Malfoy brat’ when Harry had come off the worst during one of their encounters. His request was met with outrage by Draco and a snort of laughter from Potter.

“Not this time, Kreacher,” he replied, moaning a little with pain when the laughter hurt his bruised ribs and pulled open the tear in his lip. “But keep a saucepan handy, okay? Or perhaps, the cutlery. I’ll call you if I need any help with this one.”

“As you wish, Master Harry,” Kreacher replied. Then he glared malevolently at Draco in warning before handing over the tea service and bowing again while Draco rolled his eyes.

The tea was some kind of inside joke between Harry and Madame Pomfrey because she would break into a smile when she saw him, no matter what state they were both in, and always accepted the cup Harry poured for her. They were actually pretty good at healing spells and potions on their own now, though, and were even good at cleaning and mending spells for when their robes were in tatters. 

It was completely fucked up, but it worked for them. It kept them both sane, kept them out of Azkaban at least. Draco thought the rest of the wizarding world actually owed him their thanks.  Well, him and Granger and the family of weasels too, maybe. Without them, Harry would likely be the next dark lord. The boy was seriously messed up.

His eyes traveled over Harry’s body, lingering on the scars he’d received in the cellar of Draco’s family home. Many his own father had given him. He remembered what they looked like fresh on his broken body. Harry watched him with those eyes that seemed to see everything, that seemed to either reflect all the light in the room, or absorb it all, glowing with power sometimes.

“Admiring his work?” Potter asked darkly.

Draco looked into those verdant eyes then, but didn’t speak, sensing that the time for provocation was over. Any cheek now would likely erupt into real violence, and he was looking for something different today, something a bit more pleasurable. He’d come here to diffuse the tension in Harry, not ignite it. 

“I would have killed him, Draco. Your father?  I would have killed Lucius if I’d had the chance. If Riddle hadn’t stolen it from me.” He spoke in a low commanding voice that made the hairs on Draco’s neck stand up. It was quiet, forever raspy now, permanently altered, but full of steel that matched the look in his eyes.

“I know. You had reason to,” he replied simply. 

The Dark Lord had killed Draco’s father for sport, for pleasure, as a warning to his other followers. Potters remorseless admission was nothing but the truth. He would have killed his father, Draco had no doubt, and he both hated and respected Potter for it. He’d kill anyone who’d done that to him, too. In the end, his father wasn’t the same man he’d once been. Voldemort had set him to ruin. He’d set the whole Malfoy family to ruin along with many other great purebred wizarding families. Draco sometimes wondered if that wasn’t the Dark Lord’s true intent all along. Once his own blood status was revealed, that Riddle’s own father was a dirty Muggle.

Harry never referred to him as Voldemort anymore, not in public, and not privately either. He wouldn’t use the name the Dark Lord had fashioned for himself any longer. It seemed once the name had been made taboo, he’d simply stopped using it, but he wasn’t about to call him _The Dark Lord_ , or _He Who Must Not Be Named_ either. He called him Tom or simply Riddle. Using his common muggle name to strip away the public’s perception of him, to take away the power and fear the name had inspired in people. 

Leaning in, he ran his tongue along Harry’s collar bone, following the path of his father’s blade. Tracing the fine, thin, white line out across to his clavicle and then laved his tongue over the circular scar he found there. He heard Harry suck in a sharp breath, and his body tensed before Draco bent his head farther and sucked Harry’s nipple into his mouth, biting down hard until he could feel his teeth break the skin and his quarry’s warm blood seep into his mouth. Suckling hard then to draw it out, feeling the nipple pebbling under his tongue, Draco milked him.

Arching his back, Harry pulled Draco by the hair as air hissed between his gritted teeth at the rush of pain. Then Harry gripped his shoulders and quickly spun him around, reversing their positions suddenly. Without warning, he flung Draco face first into the wall and nearly ripped his own nipple off in the process. Before Draco could react or fight back, Harry was pressed against his back, pinning him. 

“I guess I’m tossing yours,” he growled into Draco’s ear as he thrust against his arse, pushing Draco into the wall so that his cheek was smashed against the cold stone while his hands worked to unfasten Draco’s belt.

Roughly yanking his slacks and boxers down, Harry’s warm hands crawled back up Draco’s now bare thighs and over his arse. Spreading his cheeks open with his thumbs, Potter inserted a dry finger into his unprepared hole before Draco had even braced his legs apart, much less prepared himself for the invasion. 

Draco grunted at the pressure and slight burn of the intrusion, but it was almost immediately followed by a wordless lubrication charm, and his grunting turned into a gasp of surprise as the warm wet heat filled his cavity. 

Potter was obviously too impatient for any kind of proper preparation, or was simply intent on punishing Draco for frightening him so badly earlier at the sink. 

He inserted another digit, and the burning intensified as he stretched Draco open and slicked his entrance with the lubrication now coating the fingers of his hand.  Scissoring them a moment before adding a third, he pulled Draco, panting and gritting his teeth, from the wall with the other hand at Draco’s head.  Harry shuffled them both backwards awkwardly by the handful of Draco’s hair clutched in his fist.

“Get on your knees,” Potter commanded harshly, in that gravelly voice, heavy with desire and dangerous with intent. 

Draco obeyed immediately, a thrill of fear making his pulse pound as he went to his knees as quickly as Potter’s grip on his hair would allow. Harry’s fingers slid out of him as he sank to the floor, and his knees had barely kissed the rough stone before Potter was pushing him forward onto his hands. Harry fumbled behind him to free himself, the impatient rasp of his zipper menacing to Draco’s ears. Then he gripped Draco by the hip and positioned himself at his tight entrance.

“Bear down,” Potter warned him, the only preparation he had before the head of his cock pressed against Draco’s puckered hole, pushing against the tight ring of muscles. 

Draco gave a shudder, clenching his muscles in fear, resisting Harry. 

“Fuuuuccckkkk!” he growled as Potter pushed into him. Fisting his hands, he bit down on his lips against the pain of being filled so completely, stretched open unmercifully by Harry’s engorged prick that seared his insides with its heat. 

“Relax now,” Potter instructed when his full length was encased inside Draco. 

“Fuck you!” Draco gasped angrily. “You try relaxing with someone’s cock shoved up your arse none too gently, and its owner mad as hell!”

“I have,” Harry replied coldly. “Several times.” Then without any more warning or reassurances, Harry grabbed him by the hair again. 

“Wait! At least give me time to adjust before you start ramming that massive cock into me,” he begged.  “It’s been a while, you know.”

“Sorry, winner’s choice, right?”

“But that’s not fair! You didn’t win anything, you prick. I volunteered.”

“Yes, which still makes it my choice,” Harry argued.

“I don’t know where you learned about fairness…”

“I learned it from your Master, your father, and your mates, Draco,” Harry angrily replied.

Draco squirmed, whimpering once, and hating himself for it as Harry slid almost all the way out and back in again once to fully lubricate his shaft, giving Draco all the time he intended for him to comply before beginning his assault. After several powerful stoke, however, the pain had been replaced with pleasure. Draco was moaning in satisfaction every time Harry slammed into him, his heavy balls slapping against Draco, his grunts echoing in the expansive chamber while Draco’s now straining cock bounced between his spread legs. The acoustics of the room were amplifying the sounds of their carnal struggle, surrounding him, reverberating off his eardrums and under his skin, heightening his pleasure. 

A powerful thrust threw Draco off balance, making Potter jab hard into his prostate. Draco saw stars. “Oh, God, fuck me harder!” he moaned. Bracing his hands farther apart and locking his elbows, Draco pushed back into Harry eagerly now, desperate for more. 

Reaching around him, Harry released his hair then to grip Draco’s weeping, swollen cock, stroking him firmly in rhythm to the pounding he was delivering to his arse, while Draco cried out his approval. Then it was more than Draco could stand, and he started howling, thrusting back into Harry, impaling himself on Harry’s thick rod while humping his fist at the same time. Potter stiffened behind him, bracing himself and squeezing harder, rolling his thumb over the head of Draco’s cock when it pushed through his tight fist. He was letting Draco take over, letting him bring them both to completion with the frantic bucking of his narrow hips. 

Shouting when he came, Draco spilled over Harry’s hand and onto the bathroom floor as Harry gasped, erupting a moment later. His fingers digging into Draco’s hip while his cock kicked, he growled as his release spurted inside Draco’s abused hole.

When they’d finished, cleaned up and had gotten their breath, they shared a fag together in the bathroom. Lying sprawled out, both half naked on the floor, they passed it between them.  It had become almost a ritual. He’d never seen Harry smoke at any other time, only with him and only at the end of their sessions together.

 “I said I was sorry for scaring you, you know. You didn’t have to ream me so hard,” Draco said petulantly, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

“Please, I was the one with the half-attached nipple. You aren’t even bleeding. Besides, in the end, you were using me to fuck yourself. I was just trying not to get thrown off. If you’re sore, it’s your own fault,” Potter argued. “You followed me in here.” Taking a long drag then, he turned, holding the smoke in his lungs and looked critically at Draco. “Are you really hurt?” he asked, the smoke swirling around Draco’s head as he exhaled. 

Draco was surprised that he could see actual concern in Potter’s eyes that he might have truly injured him. “Don’t start going all soft on me. It’s not any worse than usual,” Draco admitted, motioning impatiently for the fag. “I came like a fountain didn’t I?” Taking a final pull, inhaling the last of the tobacco smoke before crushing the cigarette against the floor, Draco staggered to his feet as Harry scowled at him. “I’ll take it out on you the next time,” he promised.

He was going to be a little sore, but as Harry had said, he wasn’t bleeding, or anything. Potter hadn’t done him any permanent damage. In truth, that fuck had been fantastic, but still, he lamented, the things he sacrificed for the greater wizarding world without a single word of thanks.

“So, what was it about the potion?” he asked, tucking in his shirt and attempting to smooth the wrinkles.

Potter stared at him as if trying to figure out his motivation. “Just reminded me too much of one your aunt forced me to take once,” he finally muttered. “I guess it made me lose it a bit. Then, when you grabbed me from behind… it was… I thought…”  He held his breath, squeezing his fists together for a moment before looking up at Draco. “That was stupid, you know.” 

Draco nodded, surprised actually that Potter would satisfy his curiosity or even admit that he’d been struggling in the first place, no matter how obvious it had been to anyone watching, and with Potter, there was always someone watching. 

Healing their minor wounds then, they both finished getting dressed again without another word. Draco contemplated skiving off his next class because he dreaded the idea of sitting on a hard wooden seat in Transfiguration while his backside throbbed, knowing he’d be in for an hour of misery even with a cushioning charm. At least he didn’t have Quidditch practice this evening. The prospect of sitting on a broom for several hours in the cold November drizzle would be torture, he realized. Thank God the Ravenclaw’s had booked the pitch this whole week for their match against Hufflepuff this Saturday.

Before leaving, Draco checked his reflection in the mirror, scowling as he adjusted his tie and tried to smooth his hair, attempting to repair the damage Potter had done to it. It always seemed like that was his goal. Harry always appeared intent on mussing Draco’s hair so that it strongly resembled his own. Potter’s hair, in comparison, always gave the impression he’d just been shagged. It was a disgrace. Maybe next time, if there was one, he’d spend all their time together trying to make Harry’s lie flat while Harry continued to work again to mess his up.

“Tell Granger I said, you’re welcome,” he called over his shoulder as he left the bathroom, smoothing the front of his robes one final time.

“Fuck!” he heard Harry curse as the door swung shut.

Draco walked away, smirking. He knew Harry absolutely hated that.

~ .~


	46. Epilogue 3. Christmas at the Burrow

“Have a nice holiday, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall called to him as Harry stepped into the hearth in her office, which was already dancing with emerald green flames. 

Turning to face her, Harry smiled warmly.  “Thank you Headmistress, same to you,” he replied.  “And don’t let Hagrid drink all the mulled mead at New Year’s.”

“I can’t make any promises,” she responded with a tiny snort.  “See you next term.”

Harry lifted his hand in farewell and shouted, “The Burrow!”  He caught one fleeting glimpse of her hand rising in return, before she was whipped out of sight.

Harry was a regular visitor to her office. They used her floo to go to the Grimmauld Place most every weekend, or when they couldn’t get away for the whole weekend, at least to the Burrow every Sunday for brunch to spend their afternoon there. Harry always picked up Teddy at Andromeda’s house first and then carried him to the Weasley’s.  Mrs. Tonks came with him at first, until she felt that Harry could take care of Teddy properly, but now she seemed to enjoy her afternoons away from the little one. Molly and the whole Weasley clan doted on the child, so she hardly need worry for his safety. 

Sometimes, the tiny Metamorphmagus would turn his hair ginger on those Sunday afternoons to resemble the Weasley’s, much to Molly’s and Ginny’s delight.  Little Teddy was a drool bucket, nearing nine months old with a total of six teeth in his whole head, but he knew how to use them.  Harry’s shoulder still bore the marks from his most recent attack.  Perhaps it was some of his father’s werewolf traits coming out in him.

Those casual, familial Sunday’s at the Burrow were always the happiest moments for Harry now. Buffeted by the people he loved the most, cocooned from the world, which still tried to snatch pieces of him at every opportunity.  He knew that’s why Hermione insisted that both he and Ron join her back at Hogwarts for their lost final year. He knew she was hoping to protect him from the kind of chaos his life would likely be as a public figure. 

Forever linked to Voldemort, Harry would be remembered throughout history as _The Boy Who Lived_ , or _The Chosen One_ , his life always defined by Tom, their fates irrevocably intertwined. Neither would truly die while the other lived. Not in people’s memories, anyway, and those in the wizarding world had long memories. To see Harry was to remember Voldemort. Harry despised it, but he could do nothing to change it.

He’d defeated Voldemort twice, survived the killing curse twice, escaped Tom, his Death Eaters, and death itself countless times so that people actually believed he was invincible, immortal. They were wrong. 

If they truly knew how easy it would be, the effort it took to hold him together, and the number of people it required to keep him from spiraling out of control, their idolization of him would surely falter. They wanted their hero though, no matter how many had sacrificed their lives to bestow that title on him. 

Harry wanted none of their hero worship, none of their accolades. He wanted to hide himself away, to fade into obscurity, to become merely a footnote in the annals of history. Left alone to live his life in peace with the people he cherished.

Reporters with The Daily Prophet and of course, Rita Skeeter, were always on the prowl for him during Hogsmeade weekends, but they could search for him there all they wanted.  He was safely ensconced at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place, and if he did venture into Hogsmeade, it was always under his cloak, tucked into a dark corner of Abeforth’s bar or in one of his back rooms. 

Harry occasionally made public appearances, when forced to do so, or when they were necessary, like during Kingsley’s inauguration, or to testify at a Death Eater’s trial.  He understood his role, his duty, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He was present during the dedication service at the re-opening of Hogwarts to all those people, Order members, Hogsmeade residents, Hogwarts teachers, and students alike, who had lost their lives to protect it and him. He was there to receive the families when they were presented with their loved one’s Order of Merlin medals posthumously. Standing stoically for photographs, he shook hands with each of them while congratulating them, mumbling insufficient words about their family member’s bravery, and offering his condolences woodenly, while mentally then adding another _I'm sorry_ beside their names to the list etched into his conscience.  And he stood next to Kingsley at the awards ceremony for those who fought and survived, present when Ron and Hermione got their awards, and for Ginny’s and Luna’s and Neville’s. 

He’d been honored as well, of course, but he didn’t like to think about that. It meant nothing to him. He had a job to do, a prophecy to fulfill, and he’d done it. That was all. He would have thrown the stupid medal away if Hermione would have let him.  As it was, it was to be found currently still in its protective box at the bottom of his locked trunk, where it could stay as far as he was concerned, hoping never to see it again.

Photographers clamored for his picture, reporters vied for an interview, all of them desperate for an exclusive, begging Harry for his tales from his year on the run and his defeat of Voldemort.  Jostling with each other for his attention, they crowded him, shouting questions, intrusive, offensive questions. They wanted to know how he felt now that Tom was gone, how he was coping with the loss of so many witches and wizards during that final battle, if he felt like he could have done more, how he’d survived a second killing curse, and what his plans were for his future. They even asked him about the nature of his close relationship with Ron and Hermione. That one came from Rita, naturally.

Harry gave them nothing. He never spoke a single word to any of them directly, much to their frustration.  He’d leave it to someone like Hermione to recount those events for historians or possibly write them herself.  Personally, he’d had too many dealings with the press to ever trust them to print the truth about him. Those people that mattered to him knew the truth, and the others could go to hell as far as he was concerned. He’d done his job, he’d rid them all of Voldemort. He wasn’t their _Chosen One_ anymore. His future was for him to decide now.

He knew he couldn’t hide at Hogwarts forever, though. Harry intended to graduate and go on to Auror training, if they’d have him, if he could pass the mental evaluation, which would be no mean feat.  But having this school year was giving him time to get his life back together and come to terms with all that had happened to him over the course of the previous year. He needed this intermission to heal before he could get on with his life. A life he never expected to be able to live, a future he’d never allowed himself to contemplate. Even now, when he did, the guilt sometimes overwhelmed him, the number of days, years that might still lie ahead for him at the expense of so many other, more deserving lives. 

Sometimes, the fear of the great vastness of those possibilities, in that potential, would make him shake all over. It was more frightening than Voldemort, certainly more frightening than death. The challenge of living the rest of his life, of actually growing old, had never felt like a possibility. It was never something he’d truly planned for, and now that it was, he was totally unprepared for it. It made him feel almost disillusioned sometimes, like a promise unfulfilled, the prospect of so much time more daunting to him than anything he’d yet faced. Some days it was simply too much to deal with, and he would long for the blade against his skin. It was an urge he was never able to fully suppress. On those occasions, he would run instead, flee to Grimmauld Place and into the waiting arms of Ron and Hermione.

Every day was a constant battle against the memories. A war he waged within himself between remembering and forgetting. He made a promise to himself each morning that today would not be the day he succumbed to his desire for the blade, that today, just for one day, for twenty-four hours, he would resist. And so far, he’d kept his promise to himself and to Ron. Tomorrow, he would make a new promise and begin a new struggle to keep it.

Ron planned to follow him into Auror training. Harry wasn’t sure if it was what Ron really wanted in a career, but he was simply unwilling to let Harry face anything alone, even his own future. It made Harry desperately sad in some ways, yet another sacrifice made on his behalf, but he couldn’t help but be grateful, too. It wasn’t as if he didn’t believe Ron was capable of being a good Auror, quite the contrary, in fact. It was selfish, but knowing Ron would have his back, that he could always turn around and find him standing there calmed him.

Christmas was going to be bittersweet this first year after the war, he realized as he stepped out of the kitchen hearth at the Burrow and into Molly’s welcoming embrace. His eyes landed on her beloved clock as they always did when he arrived, where one hand stood frozen. It was Teddy’s first Christmas, but also the first Christmas without Fred, or Lupin and Tonks. Andromeda agreed to join them after a bit of cajoling from Mrs. Weasley. It was her first without her husband or her daughter and son-in-law, and Molly couldn’t bear the thought of her spending the holiday alone. 

Harry vowed to make sure holiday’s and birthday’s for Teddy were the special moments his had never been growing up with the Dursley’s, hoping to make up in some small way the enormous loss of Tonks and Lupin in his life. Harry knew he’d robbed this little boy of a wonderful father, stolen from his parents the happy years watching their son grow up that they so badly deserved.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, Baby,” Harry called softly to the child, trying to soothe him as Teddy rose up from his pallet on the floor ready to cry. Upset at finding himself alone, his bottom lip pouted, the corners of his tiny mouth turned down in a frown. The side of his little face was red and lined from sleep, his ginger hair matted to the side of his head as he woke from his nap and stared around in bewilderment. 

Ron had nicknamed the poor child, Tiny Honks Pootin, or some variation of it, which always earned him a cross word from his mother, or a slap to the back of his head by Ginny whenever either of them were close enough to hear it. Arthur and George called the little cherub, Big Ted. Molly had several pet names for him. Harry just called him, Baby.

Teddy turned his watery eyes to Harry at his soft hoarse greeting, rubbing at them with his chubby fist. Harry was already off the couch ahead of anyone else, coming to gather him up before he let out a wail or tried to crawl away, before he could make his escape and carry out another assault on the Christmas tree. He was faster than he looked, and he’d already attempted to use the lower branches of the tree to pull himself up once today. Grasping at the shiny bobbles hanging just out of reach, he’d nearly toppled the tree onto himself before anyone could stop him. 

Burying his face in Harry’s neck, Teddy clutched at the front of Harry’s new forest green jumper with his tiny hands when he scooped up the bundle in Chuddley Cannon orange footed pajamas into his arms. The pajamas were a gift from Ron, of course, which clashed with Teddy’s current hair color. He was warm from sleep and smelled like lotion, like baby powder and milk as he nuzzled his little compact body into Harry, already dampening his collar with drool while Harry rubbed his back soothingly and sat with him in the rocking chair. 

Never remembering to get a burp rag to try and prevent the drool or milk or worse, from leaving a wet spot on his clothes, Harry returned to Hogwarts every Sunday evening wearing a shirt dotted with stains. Sighing at his forgetfulness, he turned his hand palm up, and crooked two fingers. The cloth soared into his hand, summoned wandlessly, and wordlessly from Teddy’s pallet on the floor. Harry tucked it down between them to protect his new, Weasley jumper from further harm as they settled back in the chair.

“Show off,” Ron muttered.  “One of us would have chucked it to you if you’d asked, you know.”

Harry made a rude gesture in response and stuck out his tongue, not deigning to reply. Ron snorted and Ginny giggled. Harry didn’t realize that anyone was watching him, but he hadn’t given it a thought when he’d done it. It was just a convenience that had become automatic for him. Madame Pomfrey had revealed to the Headmistress, the propensity he’d shown for wandless magic during his capture, and he’d been having lessons with Professor Flitwick twice a week since term began.

Besides his new Christmas sweater, Harry was also wearing the most hideously garish pair of mismatched socks. They were a gift from Ron, in memory of Dobby. Ron was sporting the matches to the pairs on his own feet, saying there was no use letting them go to waste. As he was opening them that morning, Ron told Harry he’d planned to paint him a portrait, but couldn’t capture his likeness nearly as well as the one the elf had made for Harry years ago, which made George snicker at the memory of that hideous painting. 

It was possibly the start of a new tradition, the socks. Harry hoped so, anyway. They reminded him of Dobby, but also of the Dursley’s and Dumbledore, too. Dumbledore once told him that the Mirror of Erised showed himself holding a pair of warm woolen socks. It wasn’t the truth about what the mirror showed him, of course, but Harry hoped that whatever great adventure he was now on now, his greatest mentor wore a nice thick pair. 

It was funny, but socks seemed to be the gift to give this year because that was exactly what Harry had sent Abeforth for Christmas. He sent an enormous box of chocolates to Madame Pomfrey as well, more traditions he intended to keep. He’d also sent a box of chocolate frogs to Dudley with a note explaining that they were perfectly safe to eat, realizing that his cousin would probably be leery of them after the treats the twins had tricked him into eating that one time. He thought Dudley might get a kick out of collecting the wizard cards at the very least, and the idea that one of them just might be of his famous cousin, made Harry snort in amusement when he’d purchased them.

He and his godson rocked while listening to Christmas carols from the wireless, catching snatches of quiet conversation between Andromeda, Molly, and Hermione’s mother from the kitchen where they sat drinking eggnog and trading wizarding and muggle news. Harry fed him from his bottle while Teddy stared up at him. He was old enough to hold the bottle himself, but preferred Harry to do it for him on most occasions, and Harry didn’t mind. He was in no hurry to rush him along and had no worries or nagging guilt about spoiling him, either. He meant to, in fact.

Ron and Ginny went back to their game of chess once Harry and Teddy had settled themselves into a comfortable rhythm. Mr. Weasley continued napping in his chair, snoring softly, his afternoon kip undisturbed. Hermione had been curled up at the other end of the couch with a new book from Ginny, but she hadn’t returned to it. Instead, she watched him with his godson. It had become her most frequent practice, the watching him.

Naturally, a book was exactly what Hermione had given him as a gift. It was traditional after all. She’d presented it to him late last night, or perhaps early this morning when she’d come downstairs to find him sitting on the couch in the darkness as if she knew he’d be awake, restless, morose, and unable to sleep and wanted to keep him company. Her head on his shoulder as she lay against him under a knitted throw, they spent several hours then in companionable silence or else talking quietly while the rest of the house’s occupants slept.

Curiously, the book was written by a Muggle author titled; _All Quiet on the Western Front_.  She explained that it was written by a German soldier recounting his experiences in the First World War.

“It’s a story about the bonds of friendship and lasting love, of great courage and devastating loss,” she elaborated as he stared at it dubiously under the glow of the Christmas tree lights, flipping the small tome over in his hands.

Harry thought it was a bizarre choice. Surely she understood that the very last thing he wanted to read about was another war. He still struggled frequently with night terrors over the last one. When he’d expressed his misgivings about her choice of literature, she told him that she actually thought it might help.

“More therapy?” he’d questioned with a frown.

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But I think you’ll find some of yourself in those pages, Harry… A sort of kinship with those boys. I think you’ll find strength in their struggle, and a familiar empathy for their plight, as I did. I think it will help you to heal knowing that others have felt the way you feel, that you’ll find hope that the author survived unspeakable horrors and lived to tell the tale of his comrades and friends coming of age as soldiers in a devastating war.”

Nodding, Harry thanked her and agreed to give it a chance, but he’d not yet had the courage to immerse himself in it. There were just too many people here for him to feel like he could open himself up to whatever emotion it might stir in him as he read their journey through hell.

Smiling at him, Hermione watched Harry with his godson. Teddy reached up, his little fingers grasping at the watch on Harry’s wrist. Drawn to the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree that danced on its reflective face, he kept poking at it with his stubby fingers. His wispy hair changed to black before Harry’s eyes as he continued to suck half-heartedly on his bottle.

“That’s good, Baby, but it’s not nearly messy enough to match mine,” Harry told the now raven haired infant, smiling down at him and ruffling the wispy strands a bit.

Teddy grinned back around the nipple still in his mouth, as if he understood the joke. Despite what he’d said, Teddy did look remarkably like Harry now, though his eyes remained chocolate brown, like Ginny’s. 

Stroking his round cheek with the back of his finger while Teddy chewed on the nipple happily, Harry studied him. His godson favored Tonks the most, he decided, when he was in his natural state, but sometimes, Harry could see Lupin there, too. Remus was there in his eyes, mostly. Other times, a hit of his father came through in certain thoughtful expressions Teddy occasionally made. Those glimpses made Harry’s heart ache terribly.

Harry adored this child, more than he thought he would ever be capable. He’d built a special bond with him, both of them orphaned as babies by Tom's bid for power. Teddy kept Harry from going off the rails sometimes when nothing else could. He’d run from his commitment at first, feeling too much guilt for getting his parents killed. Every thought of coming face to face with the little baby he’d glimpsed only in a photo, and the shame of knowing that he was the person responsible for causing him to be orphaned, made Harry miserable with remorse and threatened a total mental collapse.

Harry was a psychological mess, a poor role model for the child, so he’d selfishly resisted, but Andromeda wouldn’t allow it. She’d written to him, to his friends, and to the Weasley’s, pressuring him not to be an absentee godfather like Sirius. Reminding him that Harry was not in Azkaban as Sirius had been for so long, telling him that Sirius would have been there for Harry if he’d been able, had finally convinced him. 

Sirius had also felt like he’d gotten Harry’s parents killed, and it was that, more than anything else, that made Harry relent. Teddy was his godson, and Harry had a responsibility to him, to fulfill his promise to Teddy’s parents. He couldn’t let them down.

Andromeda came in from the kitchen after a few minutes and took Teddy from Harry to change his nappy. When they returned, Teddy was wide awake and ready to play again. Harry sat with him on the floor, his back against the couch close to Hermione’s legs where she was tucked up with her book again. Ginny joined him when she and Ron had finished their game. 

His heart pounded at her nearness as it always did, his mouth going dry. The familiar momentary panic at having her close washed over him again, but it was becoming less frightening. Harry was finally growing more accustomed to her, more natural around her again, though he was always aware of where she was in the room if she were present. 

She made a point of sitting near him, even if she was talking with someone else, always nearby, but not crowding him, as if to simply reacclimatize him, to desensitize him to her presence. They shared classes at Hogwarts, shared the common room of Gryffindor tower, but it wasn’t the same as being close to her at the Burrow. It felt so much more intimate here on Sunday afternoons and especially now during the extended Christmas holiday where they slept under the same roof, shared a dinner table, all of them packed in tightly together with so many extra bodies so that she seemed always within touching distance, like she was now, sitting next to him on the floor. 

He took a deep, shaky breath, inhaling Ginny’s floral scent into his lungs. Like Ron, she had a natural outdoorsy scent, but instead of woody and earthy, it reminded him of sunshine and the wildflowers in the Weasley’s garden. Closing his eyes for a moment, his heart constricting, he let it wash over him. He felt dizzy and disoriented when she was so near him, as if he’d been suddenly un-tethered from his mooring. Then Hermione’s foot brushed against his back, subtly reminding him of her calming presence. The gesture anchored him again. Letting out the breath he was holding, he opened his eyes as his shoulders finally relaxed.

When the vertigo passed, he refocused himself on his godson, entertaining Teddy with more wandless magic. Hovering his new stuffed wolf he’d given him for Christmas, Harry made it jog around him. Then he conjured colored balls of light in the palm of his hand before vanishing them again to the delight of the child and Ginny too, for that matter. 

Today, for some reason, the conjured lights were simply hilarious to Teddy, though Harry had done it for him before. Perhaps because Ginny was making little popping sound effects when the light disappeared and reappeared in his hand. The baby belly laughed each time he reached for the light in Harry’s palm and it disappeared. On it went until Teddy was crying with laughter, tears rolling down his plump cheeks, drool soaking his bib. Drawn by his infectious laughter, everyone else at the Burrow had gathered in the room to watch him play with Harry, grinning or laughing at his joyous wonder of the fantastic game his godfather played with him.

“Pop!” Ginny exclaimed with a look of surprise on her face for Teddy when the light appeared in Harry’s palm once more.

Shrieking with delight, Teddy giggled madly again in anticipation before he’d even reached for it. Harry wished he could bottle up the sound and carry it with him, next to his chest, tucked safely in the Mokeskin pouch always around his neck with his other treasures. He wanted to be able to let it out on days he couldn’t be with the sweet child, when he needed the sound of his laughter to remind him of what it had all been for.

When he’d finally tired of the game, Teddy had a terrible case of hiccups, though it didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He spent a few minutes then fascinated by his own feet. Lying on his back on the bright turquoise knitted blanked trimmed with running grey wolves that Mrs. Weasley had made him for Christmas, he tried to stuff them alternately into his mouth as Ginny used them to play patty-cake. 

Teddy reached for Harry’s glasses every time he leaned over him to blow raspberries on a foot he’d tugged out of his hungry little mouth or against his belly, which earned him a squeal from the happy baby. He’d broken Harry’s glasses so many times, that Hermione had performed an unbreakable charm on them finally in exasperation because Harry couldn’t keep the meaty little fists off them, but it didn’t keep the lenses from being smudged constantly with tiny fingerprints. The tyke was fast. Ron said he had Seeker reflexes, though all he ever got was a tweak on his nose or a tug on the earlobe by those lightening quick hands. Ginny fared about as well as Harry did, though. Teddy pulled her long hair sometimes when she wasn’t quick enough or didn’t have it pulled back in a ponytail out of his reach. Winding the fiery strands in his perpetually sticky fingers, she’d have to work for several minutes to untangle them when he got hold of her. Today, Harry actually helped free her from Teddy’s grasp, or tried to at least. The shaking of his hands may have been making it worse, but Ginny didn’t seem to mind.

Mrs. Weasley, of course, was a pro, and not the least bit rusty. She could hold his little squirming body one armed, bouncing him to soothe him if he was fussy while busily preparing their meal, or washing dishes at the same time. He’d actually seen her knit with Teddy in her lap once without magic, needles in both hands trailing yarn, deftly keeping them out of his grasping fists. She rocked and hummed to him all the while as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Harry didn’t know how she did it.

He sat at the table watching her with him now at the sink, cradling the baby while she prepared dinner, though there were a dozen or more available hands to hold Teddy.  She patted his bottom, or stroked his head absentmindedly between tasks, feeding him tiny morsels with her fingers as she worked, without ever getting bitten by the little fanged monster.  And yet, at the same time, she swatted at Ron, who’d come to steal a bite of his own on his way through. 

“Is that yummy?” she asked the baby, feeding him a finger full of creamed potato she’d cooled by blowing on it.

Teddy looked like a dog that had been fed peanut butter, as his little tongue poked happily in and out of his mouth. Then he bounced in her arms and clapped his hands together. Wrinkling up his nose, he snorted his reply, clearly asking for more. 

“You sweet darling,” she cooed and kissed his grubby little palm.

Smiling at him, Molly continued to natter away at Teddy as she worked, and he jabbered back at her, the two of them lost in their own language. Who knows, after so many kids of her own, Mrs. Weasley might have actually understood the gurgling infant, Harry was surprised to find he was beginning to himself. 

Harry couldn’t help but watch them, marveling at these exchanges with fascination, as he pulled apart a head of lettuce for a salad, picturing his mother holding him like that when he was a baby.  He was suddenly reminded of the final battle as he watched Molly with Teddy, his abject fear at seeing Hermione and Luna and Ginny battling Bellatrix, knowing he needed to fight Voldemort, to finish him, yet terrified that Bellatrix would kill them if he didn’t stop her. 

His fear of her was almost greater that Voldemort.  Harry felt sure that Bellatrix was trying to strike down any woman she believed Harry held affection for, like a jealous lover attempting to rid herself of her rivals.  When her killing curse narrowly missed Ginny, he forgot about Voldemort entirely and headed straight for Bellatrix. Running at her, still hidden under his invisibility cloak, he felt like he was moving in slow motion. He felt terror, like he had in the dungeon trying to stop her cursing Ron and Hermione, as if he were suddenly living out his worst nightmare. But Molly knocked him aside before he’d reached her and began to duel Bellatrix herself, showing the same kind of fierce instinct to protect her child as Harry’s own mother had for him. 

Completely stunned, he just stood there as Molly began to duel the powerful witch, the one that made him tremble with fear. Paralyzed as if by Dumbledore's powerful curse on the tower again, his whole body tingled with magic as he watched Molly strike Bellatrix down. He was only brought out of his state of shock when Voldemort screamed at her loss and turned his wand on Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been moved to action then. He couldn’t let Tom to take her away, too, not from Ron and Ginny.

Still invisible, Harry stepped in front of Molly. He would not allow Tom to rip her away from her family, from him, the only mother figure he’d ever known. His body had ached all over, and it hurt to breathe, like when he was in the dungeon. He could feel the heat building in him again, those same destructive flames sizzling under his skin. Harry struggled to contain them as he pulled off his cloak and revealed himself at last.

“What is it, Harry dear?” Molly asked him, catching him staring wistfully at her, breaking him out of his thoughts with his hands held suspended over the bowl.

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, dropping his eyes to the table as she walked over to him, and he hastily went back to shredding lettuce. 

Mrs. Weasley reached out to stroke Harry’s head, smoothing his hair like she had Teddy’s.  She always did that, always seemed to know when he needed her reassuring touch, and he loved her fiercely for it. Despite his own guilt at their profound grief, she and Arthur had never once blamed him for Fred's death.

Removing his hands from the bowl, he grasped hers, holding it against his warm cheek a moment.  Then he stood up suddenly and wrapped his arms around her, startling her with his uncharacteristic affection and making Teddy squeal at being squashed between them.  Blinking rapidly and clearing his throat, he planted a soft peck on her cheek and one on Teddy’s forehead before quickly walking away to collect the plates and start setting the table.  Harry left her standing there, bewildered beside the table, but he didn’t want her to see his eyes watering.

He knew that one day the Burrow would be overflowing with grandbabies and great-grandbabies for her to spoil. One was already on the way. And she would have enough love in her heart for all of them, maybe for all the other orphans in the world that crossed her path, too, like she had for him when they’d met on the train platform.  But right now, that endless well of affection was all for Teddy, who needed it the most.  Like Harry, Teddy would never have siblings, would never remember his parents, but also like Harry, he’d been adopted by the Weasley’s.  He’d gained a huge extended family.  He would grow up with the next generation of Weasley’s, surrounded by love.  Something for which Harry had been deprived in his own childhood. Teddy would never live in a cupboard, never be denied food or affection.  Giving Teddy the Weasley’s was the best gift Harry could give his godson, more valuable than all the gold in Gringotts.

Teddy’s happiness, the Weasley’s happiness was what it came down to for Harry. It was the reason he kept fighting. Dumbledore was right when he’d told him to pity the living and not the dead, for the living had to continue to endure, to live a life diminished by the loss of each person who’d left them behind.

He could never return to Arthur and Molly their son, Fred, or restore Teddy’s parents to him. He couldn’t make them whole. The hand on that clock would never again move. He knew that.  But to see them finding happiness in their lives once more was the reward for all he’d suffered.  It was a sacrifice he would make, without hesitation, over and over again for their continued safety, an insufficient reparation for all they had sacrificed for him.

Mr. Weasley came up behind his wife and slid his arms around her waist.  She patted his cheek as he kissed her on the neck. Harry looked away from them, slightly embarrassed by the display of affection, which turned to mortification at the sudden memory of the nickname Arthur had given his wife that he’d once been most unfortunate to overhear.

“What can I do, Molly dear?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Nothing, Arthur. Why don’t you just take him and call the other children and our guests,” she suggested, passing Teddy to him.“Supper’s nearly ready.  We’re going to be a bit cramped, I’m afraid.”

“We’ll manage. Come on, big boy,” he said genially, bouncing Teddy as he strode from the room.“Let’s go collect our hungry brood, then.”

They had Christmas dinner.  The first without Fred, Remus, Tonks, and so many others, though Hagrid, Andromeda and Hermione’s parents were there.  Charlie too, and Bill and Fleur, who’s pregnancy was really beginning to show on her slim figure, which only added to her beauty, making her even more radiant.

They were more than a bit cramped. Harry, Hermione, Ron, Percy, Ginny, and George sat on the floor in the sitting room because the table was full. Hagrid alone took up almost an entire side of the table so that only Charlie could squeeze in next to him. All the remaining seats in the house were also occupied and still they’d had to conjure more and find places to wedge them in, but Harry didn’t mind in the slightest.  He actually preferred the Burrow bursting at the seams and filled with talk and laughter.

Hagrid had surprised Harry with a new owl for Christmas. Harry never got around to replacing Hedwig even when he’d gone with Dudley and his aunt to Diagon Alley in late September to help Dudley pick out a large eagle owl he’d named Lennox, after his favorite boxer, Lennox Lewis. Harry had looked at all of them, but he just wasn’t able to bring himself to pick one. Hagrid had bought Hedwig for his birthday, though, so Harry thought that it was fitting that he purchased Harry’s second familiar, which was a male this time. Hagrid had already named him Zosimos, which he pronounced _Za-see-mous_.  He said it meant ‘Able to Survive’ in Latin.  Harry hoped the name suited the owl because in his experience, being able to survive around him was more often than not, a prerequisite for the job.

Zosimos was a handsome barn owl, still a juvenile, and not nearly as large as Hedwig had been, but not miniscule like Pigwideon, either.  He was somewhere in the middle with beautiful, intelligent, onyx eyes, so stark against his pure white, heart shaped face, which was outlined in reddish brown. That same ginger coloring covered his head and then blended with gray and white across his wings and tail with tiny gray spots all over like freckles.

The second unexpected gift he received came wrapped in brown paper with twine string.  It was a lovely, worn, leather bound book, much like the journal given to him all those months ago by Hermione when he couldn’t speak, which he still kept with him, Ginny’s notes still tucked safely in the back.  It was a hand written potions book, and there was a note inside the front cover, though Harry already knew who it was from by the familiar miniscule writing covering its pages, having studied the script all through his sixth year.

The note read: 

_Harry,_

_I was mistaken. Your nature is much more like your mother’s than I could admit, or perhaps bear to witness. I wish to apologize for the things that transpired between us. I deeply regret them._

_Wishing you peace,_

_S. Snape_

_P.S.  I thought you might find this journal instructive in your future endeavors. My last appeared to have served you well._

No one had seen or heard a word from Snape since he’d fled Hogwarts, no one except Harry, Ron and Hermione, and Harry believed no one ever would. Snape, like him, was finally free. Free of his Master’s yoke, whichever wizard to whom history would remember him loyal, for Harry would forever remain mum on that subject in the press, too.  Other than what he’d revealed to Tom in those final moments of the battle, Harry never spoke another word about him.  Snape didn’t want Dumbledore to reveal his true nature, so Harry wouldn’t either. All the things Snape had done, good or bad, all the sacrifices he’d made, weren’t Harry’s secrets to disclose, nor were they his tales to tell. 

Harry still didn’t know how he felt about Snape. He didn’t know if it was forgiveness or just acceptance, but there was at least no longer any outright malice towards his former potions professor. Perhaps it was simply an understanding of the man and his choices, mixed with pity and weirdly, admiration that he felt now. Still, he would be happy to live the rest of his life never coming face to face with him again. Harry’s reflections on the wizard and his feelings about him were best viewed at a distance. He still owed him a swift kick in the bollocks, but Snape would get more than that if Ron ever saw his greasy head again.

Having viewed Snape’s memories in the Pensieve, Harry had finally understood why the man had despised him so much. But the love he’d had for Harry’s mother disturbed him, too. Snape had wanted to own her like a prized possession. He wanted to control her, and perhaps, trap her like a princess in a tower. It was a possessive love, an obsession, in Harry’s opinion, which had dominated Snape’s life and ruled all his actions, even after her death. Plus, it was just creepy.

Harry turned the book over in his hands, examining the cover, flipping through the dog-eared pages full of tiny diagrams and markings out. It was Snape’s own potions journal, instructions for the potions and spells his former professor had invented himself, or improved through his prodigious skill, including, Harry noticed, the minty salve and the hideous torturous healing draught that Harry despised. Flipping to the last page, to place the letter protectively inside, Harry found something that made his lips quirk in a tiny smile. Written in all capital letters:   _THIS BOOK IS THE PROPERTY OF THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE_

* * *

 

“Ron, you’re whole family is downstairs!”

“So?”

“So… it’s too early. What if George and Charlie or your Mum decides to come upstairs? Not everyone’s gone to bed yet. They’ll hear!”

Harry’s back was against the wall of Ron’s bedroom from where he’d been shoved up against it unceremoniously by Ron when he’d come up to bed. 

They were sharing Ron’s room again over the Christmas holiday, just as they had during almost every visit Harry had over the years with the Weasley family, though never quite like this.  Hermione was bunking with Ginny again and was none too happy about the arrangement, either.  She scowled at them crossly every morning over the breakfast table.  Even though she lived in separate dorms from them at Hogwarts, Hermione knew that away from school, in Ron’s private bedroom, the two of them were getting up to things in the night, and she was being left out. 

She was right, of course. The camp bed setup for Harry’s use had barely been slept in.  They spent most of each night pressed together on Ron’s old bed, spooned against each other’s naked bodies on threadbare Chuddley Cannon sheets. Covered by the faded orange comforter, Ron slept squashed against the wall with Harry dangling off the edge until he either fell off, or was pushed off by Ron if he got too hot in the night from the furnace of heat constantly radiating from Harry’s body.

Ron stood in front of him now. His arms were braced on either side of Harry’s head as he leaned into him. Tilting his head back, giving Ron access to his neck, Harry exposed his throat, eager for the feel of Ron’s lips against his skin despite his weak protests.  His hand gripped Ron’s bicep as if to pull his arm down, to pull away, but he was really hanging on as Ron began attacking his neck. 

The full moon had coincided with the Christmas holiday, and it had Harry’s desire running wild tonight. He could smell his own arousal and Ron’s. It smelled like pungent spices and musk, but also shame. 

There was always an element of shame in sex, for Harry, anyway.  He felt shame in his desire for it, shame in the act itself and who he was engaging in it with, particularly in the things he occasionally did with Draco, or the things he begged from Ron sometimes when his anxiety was high. He didn’t think Ron or Hermione felt the same, but he would never stop loathing himself for taking what they offered him, for needing it so badly. The shame was in his inability to say no to it, and in not regretting it more when it was over. He told himself it was time to let them go, to give them back to each other, but at the first touch from either of them, his resolve crumbled and the shame intensified.

He’d infected them, both of them, and he’d have to live with that for the rest of his life, he knew, but he couldn’t give them up, couldn’t live without them, and he hated himself for it. He needed them to keep him sane, to hold him up, and to hold him together, to keep the outside world at bay, and they did it without complaint, but he knew it was wrong. He knew in his heart that he was using them, asking too much of them, but God help him, he couldn’t stop, even if his life depended on it because he would fall apart without them, and not just Ron and Hermione. It was Ginny, and the Weasley’s, Dean and Luna, Neville and Abeforth, Madame Pomfrey, Hagrid and the rest of the Hogwarts staff, too, even Draco.

It was as if they were all in a kind of choreographed dance around him, sliding seamlessly between tempos and partners, twirling around him, handing him off between them.  Moving in circles, in layers, they weaved in and out of each other as they passed him between themselves, keeping him on his feet, never letting him fall. 

He closed his eyes. The smell of cinnamon and the forest filled his nostrils as he breathed in deeply, inhaling Ron’s scent, that strange mixture of spices and earth that was Ron’s essence, into his lungs, absorbing it into his skin.

“Door’s locked,” Rom mumbled against the hollow of his throat, “Imperturbable charm.” 

Licking his way up Harry’s neck, Ron whispered nasty things against his damp, heated skin, making vulgar suggestions into his ear as he ran his hands all over Harry’s body. Saying things he wanted to do to Harry, things he wanted Harry to do to him, which caused Harry’s head to swim, his pulse to pound, and his dick to throb. 

Harry hurriedly unbuckled Ron’s belt. Overwhelmed by the urgency of his need, he tried to slide, somewhat awkwardly, down the wall. Ron halted him with a hand to his chest, and he went to his own knees in front of Harry, instead. Working his belt loose, and then his trousers and boxers down to his thighs, Ron freed Harry’s cock to take him into his mouth. Harry hissed as his bare, still slightly sore arse, pressed against the cold, rough textured wall.

Holding him by the hips, Ron swallowed him whole, sliding him completely in and out of his mouth, between those full, kiss swollen lips, against his thick, talented tongue, and down his slick throat in slow, rhythmic strokes while Harry gripped him by the hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the pleasure. 

Ron made short work of Harry, bringing him quickly to orgasm. Harry held his breath to keep from yelling out and bringing the whole house down on them, when he came. He was dizzy, weak in the knees, grateful he was leaning against the wall when Ron stood again and kissed him. 

Tasting himself on his lover’s tongue, Harry let Ron plunder his mouth and roughly grind against him while his own hands grabbed fistfuls of ginger hair. Then Ron stepped back and slid Harry’s glasses off, tossing them onto the camp bed while Harry tried to toe off his trainers without tangling himself up and falling down. 

Ron looked Harry up and down a moment, his eyes dark, his swollen lips parted, and then, without a word, he turned him.  Pressing Harry’s chest and face against the wall, Ron went to his knees again. Stepping out of one leg of his trousers, which were now pooled at his ankles to widen his stance, Harry braced himself against the wall by his forearms for what was coming as Ron ran his hands over Harry’s arse. Examining the still pink marks from his own handprints, Ron soothed the bruised flesh before spreading him open with his thumbs. Then he ran his tongue around the tight ring of muscles to begin preparing him.

“Oh, God,” Harry moaned at the contact, pressing his forehead hard against the wall. His legs started to shake. It felt so good, and even though he’d already come, he found himself hardening once more. 

The marks on his arse were another thing that made him feel shameful, but Harry had been desperate last night. Dreading having to face this first Christmas morning in the absence of so many, he’d had to beg Ron again because Ron hated doing it.

The first time it had happened was soon after the battle, and they were in a tiny hotel room in Darwin. Hermione was sleeping over at her parent’s, leaving Harry and Ron alone in the room together at night. Seeing his own face staring at him from the cover of the newspaper, Harry had crawled over Ron’s lap to collect the Daily Prophet from the side table and Ron had slapped Harry’s bare arse in mock irritation. The slight sting of Ron's hand against his tender flesh, followed by the rush of heat, and the shock and unexpectedness of the blow made Harry go instantly hard.

“Oh, fuck!” he’d yelped, flopping down across Ron’s lap.  “Do… do that again, Ron.”

“What?” Ron spluttered.

“Please,” Harry begged, pressing his face into the mattress in embarrassment of his reaction and the humiliating realization that he desperately desired more.  “Hit me harder.”

“Harry, I—”

“Please,” he pleaded, writhing in Ron’s lap while Ron soothed the spot, rubbing his bum in small circles.

Then Ron reluctantly removed the hand, before returning it again swiftly. The sound of his palm making contact with Harry’s skin cracked in the room, and Harry moaned with both pleasure and pain, burrowing his ridged rod between Ron’s thighs.

“Again!” he demanded, his voice muffled against the bed sheets he had gripped in his fists while he trembled with anticipation, trying to hold himself steady and not hump Ron’s lap. 

Perhaps against his better judgment, Ron obliged, striking him in the same spot as the previous one so that the skin flared and burned. Harry gasped at the shock of pain, but wanted more. Much more. Whimpering, flooded with disgust by his actions, but frantic for more, he lifted his hips to present a better target, which caused his cock, dripping with arousal, to slide between Ron’s tightly pressed thighs. After about five more blows, Harry was howling, his arse on fire as he came onto Ron’s lap. 

“F... fuck me now,” Harry ordered breathlessly, still shaking violently from the echoes of his powerful orgasm, and burning with shame.

“Harry, I don’t think I should,” Ron argued. 

But Harry was having none of it. Ron was hard, too. Harry could feel it. He was thoroughly aroused, if not by his own actions, then certainly by Harry’s reaction to them.

“I need it,” he moaned, rolling his hips to grind against Ron like some kind of cock hungry whore.

“This is a bad idea,” Ron growled, but he was already sliding out from under Harry to crawl between his legs. 

Harry pulled his knees up, his chest still flat against the mattress while Ron pressed a wet finger against his entrance.

“Just do it, Ron!” he demanded, irritated by the delay in the punishment he suddenly craved.

“No!” Ron denied him angrily. “God damn it, Harry! I’m not doing that.”

Harry whined in frustration, his forehead pressed against the mattress as he pushed back against Ron’s hand impatiently. He felt desperate, stymied by Ron’s refusal, but he didn’t continue to argue, and soon enough, Ron was pounding into him. Hammering his prostate over and over, Ron pulled Harry into him by the hips while tears leaked out of his eyes and into the sheet below him. 

“Harder,” he grunted before the breath was forced out of him again as Ron slammed into him, his stomach slapping against the bruised flesh of Harry’s backside.

“Shut up!” Ron gasped.

Harry came again when Ron had begun painting his insides with his own orgasm before falling onto Harry’s back. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, Harry started weeping in abject misery. Wallowing in self hatred at what he’d just made Ron do to him, he wailed in agony as the grief trapped inside him for so long finally broke free and flooded out of him. 

“Don't… don’t tell Hermione,” he sobbed. “Don’t tell her about this… please, Ron.”

“I won’t,” Ron whispered, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him against his chest. “I promise. Just hush now. It’s going to be all right. I won’t tell her.”

Ron held Harry’s shaking body against him then until the tremors wracking him subsided and he’d finally cried himself out. He whispered soothingly to Harry, stroking his hair until Harry fell asleep again in his embrace, exhausted and emotionally drained.

He’d kept his word. He hadn’t told Hermione, even when Harry had asked for it again.  He’d tried not to because he knew Ron hated it, and Harry hated making him, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. Then he’d found Draco, who was willing to do more than Ron. Unafraid to inflict the kind of pain on Harry that he desperately craved, Draco willingly gave him the outlet he needed to satisfy the desire for violence and humiliation that Harry couldn’t relieve in any other way.

The good news was that he finally seemed to have worked much of the rage out of him during his sessions with Draco.  He hadn’t felt the unbearable need for punishment for a while now. The last time he’d seen Draco was in mid November, and last night was the first time he’d been driven to ask Ron in a very long time. 

The stress of the holiday and being in such close quarters with everyone, especially Ginny while the moon was full, had just overwhelmed him. He’d felt as if his skin was on fire all day yesterday. It itched and burned until he thought he would go mad. That, coupled with the sounds and smells surrounding him and bombarding his senses, had pushed him over the edge. Thank God, Ron could see his torment and obliged him without complaint.

The aching soreness of his arse every time he sat down today and the slight chafing burn when he walked had distracted him and kept him calm enough to actually enjoy himself for much of the day. Harry owed Ron much more than the fuck he was about to allow him for keeping him from being the complete loon he knew he would have been today without it. He’d tried to show his thanks earlier, but Ron had stopped him. Maybe later tonight he would get his chance, he thought as Ron continued to rim him expertly.

Probing his hole, Ron fucked him with his slippery tongue and long, nimble fingers until Harry was begging his best friend to fuck him with what was between his legs, instead. So Ron did. Casting a quick lubrication charm, he eased into Harry slowly. Harry grunted against the slight pain of being stretched open, though the muscles were relaxed, and he was totally ready for the invasion of Ron’s considerable cock into his tight passage. When Ron had fully seated himself, Harry pressed his forehead against the wall again, panting at being filled so completely.

His palms lay flat, his fingers curling, nails digging, trying to find purchase against the painted plaster when Ron began to move. Weeping strings of clear pre-come onto the hardwood floor, Harry drew patterns with it as his own cock bobbed between his spread legs with each of Ron’s thrusts. He cried out when Ron found that spot inside him and brushed against it on every other collision into him, unable to keep silent tonight against the explosion of sensation it caused in him. Harry was whimpering, mewling piteously by the time Ron reached around and ran his finger over the head of Harry’s aching cock.

"Oh, God. Please, Ron!" he begged, desperate for Ron to wrap those teasing fingers around him. Forcing his cock to slide through Ron's tightened fist with each of his thrusts to bring on his own orgasm.

"No," Ron growled in his ear. "I want you to come from just my cock alone tonight."

Harry whined in protest. "You cruel bastard," he gasped. He would have reached down and done it himself, but he couldn't without having his face smashed into the wall as hard as Ron was pummeling his arse.

"You love it when I'm cruel," Ron countered, still circling the rim of Harry's cock maddeningly with his finger. "Don't you?"

"Yes!" Harry admitted in a hiss. And he did. God help him, he did.

Soon enough, Ron got his wish. On the first convulsion of Harry's cock, Ron finally  closed his hand around him tightly, heightening his pleasure. Harry was biting down on his own arm to muffle the scream of relief while his vision dimmed and sparks of light popped before his eyes as Ron came inside him with a growl of his own.

Stroking Harry’s spent cock lazily then and sucking great lung-fulls of air while Harry tried to blink himself back into full consciousness, Ron rested his weight against Harry’s back while he softened inside him before sliding out. Then he reached for his wand to help clean up the mess he’d left Harry in, and the wall, and the floor, and their discarded clothes, after tucking himself back into his boxers and kicking off his own trousers.

“Hermione is going to be pissed she didn’t get to see that, but I couldn’t wait to see if she was going to try and sneak up here tonight,” Ron told him, breathing hard as Harry worked his jumper over his head, his sweaty body making the job difficult. “You’re so bloody shaggable, Harry.”

“Thanks,” he replied dryly, letting out a derisive snort.  “I guess I’ll have to take the blame then.  I just hope she doesn’t want me to make it up to her right away if she shows up.  I think I might be shagged out for a bit. I nearly blacked out from that last one.”

Ron grinned at him. “I’m sure we can find other ways for you to be useful,” he said and lightly slapped Harry on his sore arse, making Harry gasp and his damned indefatigable cock jump again.

“Oh, good. Well as long as I can be useful,” he replied sarcastically, rubbing his flaming cheek in pleasure. “I’d hate to be a disappointment, especially not on Christmas.”Stepping past Ron, Harry made his way, on wobbly legs, slowly to the bed and lay face down, his arms thrown out to the sides.

“You all right, mate?” Ron asked, sounding a bit worried.

“Yeah ‘m fine,” he mumbled against the pillow. “Just knackered.”

Putting a knee on the bed between Harry’s legs, one hand braced next to his head, Ron leaned down and ran a hand up Harry’s spine.  Pushing down, using two fingers and his thumb to dig into the muscles, he massaged his way up from the dimples of Harry’s lower back, still moist with sweat from the workout he’d just had with his hot jumper still on, up to his neck while Harry groaned in appreciation.

“Are you sure?  You seemed kinda down today.”

Harry turned his head to the side, letting Ron work on his shoulders and neck now with those strong, talented fingers. “You don’t have to worry over me all the time, you know?  Take a day off, Ron.  I’m okay, really.  It’s just the first Christmas… There are so many that aren’t here.”

Pausing a minute, Ron leaned farther down and planted a kiss on Harry’s spine, between his shoulder blades. “Yeah,” he whispered in agreement, and then slid further down, kissing him in the curve of his lower back. “I know.”

Harry moaned. “You need a shave,” he told him on a sigh as Ron’s chin scraped against his tender skin.  “I’ve got whisker burn in places I really shouldn’t.”

Ron chuckled. His breath blew against the fine hairs and over-sensitized skin on Harry’s back, making it prickle with gooseflesh and causing Harry to shiver.  The mattress dipped a moment as Ron left the bed. 

Harry lay there with his eyes closed, boneless, and totally relaxed from Ron’s ministrations. He listened, feeling content to remain right where he was in this prone position for the rest of the night as Ron removed his remaining clothing. He wasn’t budging from this spot, he decided. Ron could take the camp bed tonight, Harry thought, feeling too weak and relaxed to move, like all his muscles had been liquefied. 

When Ron returned to him, Harry smelled the mint only a second before Ron’s hands were on him again.  He let out a yelp of surprise as a slick, freezing digit slid into the cleft of his arse, followed by Ron’s thumb as he massaged a dollop of Madam Pomfrey’s ointment into Harry’s abused skin.

“Damn it, Ron, that’s cold!” he gasped, trying to clamp his legs together, clenching his muscles.

“Hold still,” Ron commanded. “And spread you legs for me.” His other hand was on Harry’s back, between his shoulders. As Ron pressed down with what felt like his full weight to hold him in place, he wedged a knee between Harry’s thighs. 

“Fuck you! You could warn a bloke, you know?” he growled in outrage, still struggling to turn over, crawl away, or pull Ron’s hand from between his legs with little success. “Where the hell did you get that stuff from anyway?”

Ron held him pinned to the mattress while Harry squirmed under him, attempting to wriggle away from those cold invading fingers.

“There. Better?” Ron asked when he’d managed to work the ointment between and around Harry’s still slightly swollen arse cheeks, his inner thighs and his perineum despite the fact that Harry had been a most uncooperative patient.

“Uh… yeah, I guess so,” he said grudgingly, panting slightly from exertion and from the numbing cold that seemed to be spreading outward, taking his breath away. “Now it just feels totally bizarre. Instead of the slight burning, it’s freezing and numb.” He shivered. “I think my bollocks have shriveled up and gone back up inside me from the cold.  They might never drop back down again now. So thanks for that, git.”

Ron snorted, peeling off Harry’s mismatched socks and tossing them to the floor. “You shouldn’t have complained, then.  I keep that stuff in my bag.  It’s dead useful.  Besides, I like the way it smells on you.” 

“Yeah well, it feels like you just shoved ice cubes up my arse and let them melt between my legs. I don’t think that stuff is supposed to be used there.”

“Jeez. Stop being so stroppy.”

Ron stroked the bottom of each of Harry’s feet once with that still icy digit before crawling over him to take his spot on the bed.  Lying down with his back against the wall, Ron threw a leg over Harry’s while Harry turned his head to look at him.  Budging up slightly, grudgingly for Ron, Harry stubbornly continued to remain spread eagle on the mattress, taking up more than his share of space on the tiny bed.

“You spent a lot of time with Ginny today.”  Ron announced quietly once he’d settled on the bed as comfortably as he could. He watched Harry for his reaction to the unexpected comment, but Harry didn’t respond. “I think she’s still in love with you.”

Harry stared at Ron a moment, before pulling up reluctantly to rest on his forearms. 

“You still care about her, too.  Don’t you?” Ron continued.

“This isn’t the pillow talk I was expecting,” Harry responded, deflecting the question. “I really don’t think now is the time to ask me how I might still feel about your sister. Not while I’m lying naked next to you in your bed, right after I just let you fuck me stupid against your bedroom wall.”

Ron smiled. “I’m just saying. I still think things can work out between you two if you want them to and will let it.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “I’m sure she’d be just fine finding out about all this.” He twisted his wrist to indicate the two of them. “And with Hermione, too. That conversation would go over real well.”

“I think you underestimate her. If I know my sister, she already knows, or at the very least, suspects what’s going on. It doesn’t seem to have dampened how she feels about you.”

“You’re completely mental, Ron. Just shut up, all right?” Leaning in, he kissed Ron briefly on the lips to soften his harsh words, then rolled over, pressing his back against Ron’s chest and nestling against him. 

He didn’t want to think about Ginny right now, or explore what was in his heart. It was still too painful sometimes. They’d just finally worked themselves back into a close friendship. Harry could be in the same room with her now, alone even, without feeling completely panicked, or feeling like he might burst into tears if she touched him. He wasn’t ready for more than that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Harry knew she still cared for him, or who he had been, at least. He didn’t need Ron to tell him that. But he was living in a kind of limbo, still not reconciled with his past, nor solidified into his future, and still leeching off his best friends. Harry wasn’t sure who he was, anymore. He only knew he wasn’t who the public thought he was, and he wasn’t who Ginny thought he was, either. They loved an image or a memory of him, not the reality of him.

Seeing Ginny everyday at Hogwarts was agony because he couldn’t turn himself back into that boy again. Yet he wasn’t able to resist being close to her, either. He was constantly riddled with guilt for not being able to end his other relationships for Ginny, for not letting her move on to someone who was truly good for her.  He was too big a coward to tell her the truth about himself, and unable to end the fantasy he knew she still harbored that the Harry she remembered would eventually comeback to her. Worst of all, he was corrupting her, too. Unable to let go, he dragged her through this pain with him. She didn’t know him anymore, and he couldn’t tell her who he really was, or what he’d done while they were apart, but he was still so in love with her. It’s what hurt the most.

Harry had actually tried to encourage Dean to reconcile with Ginny, once, to put an end to his own hope, but Dean wasn’t interested. He’d actually laughed in Harry’s face at the suggestion.

“Ginny doesn’t want me, mate,” he’d told Harry, shaking his head. “She never did. There’s only one person who’s ever had her heart, and it was never me.”  Then he squeezed Harry’s shoulder consolingly. 

“You’re a good friend, Dean,” Harry whispered miserably.  “Better than I deserve.”

Slinging his book bag over his shoulder, Dean turned back to face Harry, looking him in the eyes. “Then as your friend, you should know that when I tell you you’re a fucking twat for trying to send me back into the lion’s den again with that vicious woman, that I mean it with all the love and respect in the world. Blimey, Harry! She’d rip me apart if I tried to go another round with her, that is, if you didn’t get to me first.”

Harry still remembered the mix of disappointment and relief he’d felt watching Dean as he’d left the dorm.

“Next time, can’t I just tell you what a great lover you are?  How you can make me come with just your words, or something like that. Isn’t that what normal people do after they have mind blowing sex?” Harry grumbled to Ron, tugging on the single pillow they were both trying to share, taking more of it for himself.

Ron remained silent, but Harry felt like he could feel his best friend smirking at him, and then after a minute, he pulled the blanket over them both.

“Night, Harry,” Ron sighed, sliding a hand down Harry’s arm before curling it around his waist. 

Tucking his face into Harry’s neck, he pressed his lips to Harry’s shoulder, his breath blowing against Harry’s warm skin. It was comforting, and Harry relaxed back against Ron completely.

“Night,” he whispered.

He dreamt of Bellatrix that night, of how she looked when he’d faced Voldemort in the forest, the way her bosom swelled over her tight corset. But it was a memory, not a nightmare. He remembered the excitement in her face at the sight of him, the anticipation of the meeting of her two greatest obsessions. It was bizarre, or perhaps not, that it was she who held his focus, instead of the mortal enemy he was facing off against. Absurd that he’d dwelled on her breasts, of all things, while awaiting his imminent death.

He still had nightmares all the time at Hogwarts, mostly about what had happened to him at the Malfoy’s, which, of course, featured Bellatrix heavily. Luckily he and Ron shared a dorm with just Dean, who at least had some understanding of what Harry had been through, having lived through his own time in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor at Bellatrix’s mercy. Dean never seemed put-out or even mentioned all the nights Harry had woken him with his screams. The only time Harry was ever really free of the nightmares was when he slept with Hermione and Ron next to him. The comfort of their bodies so close to his seemed to keep them at bay, giving him peace.

Harry lay awake, blinking in the darkness after the dream, concentrating on regulating his heartbeat and breathing. It was a technique he employed in an effort to relax himself back into a state where he might again be able to sleep and tonight, it was working.

Beside him, Ron gave him a hard shove suddenly, and Harry, unprepared, slipped onto the floor. Snorting, he got to his feet again and stared down at Ron who was now sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, snoring contentedly. Harry crawled back onto it, remembering that he owed Ron a thank you.

 

* * *

 

Luna and her father came for lunch on Boxing day, and she brought along Neville and his grandmother. Harry sat at the kitchen table holding Teddy with Ginny sitting beside him, as usual, while he tried to listen with interest to Xeno and Luna’s outlandish tales and Neville’s much more mundane ones, but no less enthusiastic of his days working at the Apothecary. Teddy reached for his glasses before Harry could stop him and immediately put them in his mouth to coat them with slobber. Hermione rolled her eyes from her spot opposite him as Harry chuckled, trying to pull them out of the child’s grip. Ginny took them from him and wiped the lenses clean on her shirt.

Harry smiled at her gratefully, feeling his cheeks flush slightly as she handed them back, and he nervously slid them back on. He readjusted the squirming baby in his lap before turning back to their guests to pick up the thread of their conversation. Harry felt genuinely happy, calm and content as he stroked Teddy’s bright purple hair while he slapped his chubby palms on the scrubbed wooden table, reveling in the racket he was making. 

“You’re a natural, Harry,” Luna told him, watching Harry carefully with those magnifying eyes as Teddy now inserted a tiny finger into his even more miniscule nostril and began rooting around industriously. “Someday, you’re going to be a great father.”

Her words seemed to echo out at him from a great distance, spoken in his own voice. He’d said almost the exact same words to Teddy’s father the day he was born, yet Remus had hardly had the chance to prove him right. He would have, though, Harry knew he would have. The thought made his heart constrict as his face went redder.

Ron arched an eyebrow. Then he winked at Harry from across the table before taking a sip of his tea while Hermione blinked the wetness from her eyes.

 _Maybe_ , he thought pulling Teddy’s hand away and holding it as he reached for the cloth draped over his shoulder to wipe it clean. Maybe someday he would.

Giggling, the natural golden eyes of his father twinkling mischievously up at Harry, Teddy slowly raised his free hand to return a finger to his nostril so that he might continue to mine for bogeys.

Harry sighed. He’d have to master being a good godfather first. 

 _One step at a time_ , he thought. One little baby step at a time.

~ . ~


	47. Epilogue 4. Anniversaries and Endings

 

Bill was their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.  He’d decided not to go back into curse-breaking for Gringotts after the war, saying he didn’t fancy a desk job with the bank, either.  As he and Fleur were starting a family, he explained to Mum and Dad over dinner one evening before term started, he needed a job that was more suited to family life, and though they loved the cottage by the sea, they planned to search for a home in Hogsmeade.

Ron thought Bill was quite good as a teacher, actually. It suited him. Almost anyone else would’ve probably been intimidated at having _The_ Harry Potter in his class. A lesser man might have been terrified of trying to teach defense to a classroom full of students, most of whom had been taught by, and fought in, the final battle with the famous star pupil. Harry was the legendary wizard, after all, who’d defeated the most powerful dark wizard in a hundred years, a man who had stared Ron’s eldest brother down in the back garden of his own home and refused under no uncertain terms to capitulate to Bill’s threats and demands regarding their plans on the bank.

Yeah, he finally heard the truth about that little conversation, but not from either Harry or Hermione. He’d heard it from Bill himself as he'd begged Ron for details on what had really happened at Gringotts amid all the rumors and speculation swirling while Harry lay asleep and recovering in the hospital wing after the battle.

All these reasons might have intimidated a lesser man, but not Bill. He had a healthy respect for Harry, certainly, but not fear of him. Perhaps because he already knew Harry, perhaps because _The Chosen One_ sat quietly at the back of the class to avoid attention, and only commented when asked to do so, to answer a question, or to demonstrate his command of a spell. Whatever the reason, Bill held his own. He was certainly knowledgeable about all sorts of dark curses and creatures from his time with Gringotts, and he parlayed that training and experience into his lessons, teaching his students all sorts of methods for disarming and defending against them. It was a bit weird for Ron though, having his brother as a Hogwarts Professor. Still, it could have been worse. It could have been Percy.

Percy had left the Ministry and joined George at the joke shop, handling the books mostly.  It was another odd choice that left Ron scratching his head.  Percy had always been so ambitious.  Ron was sure he’d had his sights on one day becoming Minister of Magic.  But his few years at the Ministry had been marked by scandal and betrayal.  The people he’d admired, worshipped even: Fudge, Mr. Crouch, Umbridge, had all failed him.  It must have left Percy questioning himself and his choices.  Perhaps abandoning the Ministry and his ambitions was his own form of penance for his years estranged from the family.  Maybe it was punishment for the guilt he felt for having been there when their brother died, for being the cause of Fred’s distraction, for not being able to prevent it or save him from it.  Ron didn’t know.  He thought it kinder never to ask.  God knows they all carried their own burden of guilt for the lives lost that day, deserved or not.

Ron couldn’t understand what the dynamic of George and Percy working together must be like, though. The two of them were such polar opposites, always having a go at each other when they were younger. But maybe the war and Fred’s death had changed them both, had worn down the edges that grated between them so there was less friction between them now. Percy was certainly much more humble, much less arrogant and George, sadly, much less full of mischief. Voldemort had done that.

Ron missed Fred terribly, but it was nothing compared to George’s grief.  George looked so lost without him, diminished without his twin, his partner. Ron knew that his brother would be forever crippled by the loss, would never be whole again. Sometimes the magnitude of that grief would put George on the ground for a bit before he could struggle back up. Seeing that fight was painfully familiar to Ron because he’d seen Harry battle it almost daily, devastated at the loss of so many for which he blamed only himself.

Ron had great empathy for George’s terrible loss. He knew how much it would hurt to lose Hermione, or Harry as if a part of himself had died.  He remembered the feeling of devastation, of thinking Harry was truly dead when he saw him hanging limp in Hagrid’s arms after being struck down by Voldemort in the forest. 

Harry had come so close to death so many times before, in the dungeon, and at Grimmauld place after they’d escaped. Seeing him that night, his lifeless body being carried out of the forest by the half-giant, though, had left Ron numb with shock and grief.  It was an aching so profound, that he didn’t know if he could survive it. The damned dolt had just walked out to meet it. Calmly, willingly, Harry had surrendered his soul to destroy the last vessel that contained a piece of Voldemort’s, the Horcrux that was inside himself. 

He didn’t even say goodbye. Harry had just left them behind, deserting them, and Ron didn’t know that he’d gone, helpless to stop it happening. Grieving over Fred’s loss, he’d failed to protect Harry and had lost him, too.

The ache of that failure and the betrayal of Harry’s abandonment took his breath away as he'd stood watching Voldemort crowing triumphantly over Harry’s death while Hagrid placed his body gently on the ground. Ron had listened through tears, devastated and in shock, while The Dark Lord told lies about his best friend’s courage, displaying his lover’s body as proof of his power. Then his pain had turned to fury, his devastation to revenge when his eyes found Avery and Bellatrix in the crowd. The last living people on Harry's list besides Voldemort himself. Ron meant in that moment to cross them off that list for Harry. He would not suffer them to live while grieving Harry's loss.

Killing Avery had not brought him satisfaction, however. It didn't quench his desire for vengeance. It could not staunch the bleeding in his own heart. He'd already suffered a mortal wound. But then Harry returned as suddenly as he'd left and granted him a reprieve. Yet, it had taken Ron a long time to get over that betrayal, to forgive Harry and trust him again. Even now it still sat like a stone in his gut, his mistrust and anger never fully healed.

After Defense, they headed immediately down to dinner because they had a meeting with Professor McGonagall at six.  Hermione decided that they should take private Animagus lessons from the Headmistress, mostly to satisfy her curiosity about what form Harry would take. She’d badgered McGonagall until she finally relented, and the three of them, and Ginny (Hermione insisted there be four second generation Marauders, or that was her excuse to Harry, at least) began twice a week lessons with her in the evenings once they’d returned from the Christmas break.

Harry achieved the transformation first, Hermione two lessons after him, and then Ginny several weeks later. Naturally, Ron was the last to master it. Hermione had always been better at Transfiguration than either Harry or himself, but Harry, of course, had already done it on his own, even though he didn’t believe it. It was an ability, like his wandless magic, that obviously came naturally to him, almost intuitively. Ron, on the other hand, struggled with the theory. It was very complicated magic, but if Wormtail had managed it, Ron was damned if he would fail.

Harry might have imagined himself as that fluffy bunny, but Ron had always pictured Harry as a cat. He saw him as a scrawny little black cat with green eyes and a lightning shaped patch of white fur on its head, on account of the nine lives and all. Turns out, Hermione was the cat instead, with bushy brown fur who looked an awful lot like Crookshanks, but mercifully without the smashed face or the bottle brush tail. They all teased her about it. Ginny was a beautiful red fox, and he was a squirrel, which was cool, he guessed. He was just glad he wasn’t a bat like he suspected Snape was, or worse, a rat like Peter, though technically he was still in the rodent family. If he’d turned out to be a rat, though, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Harry had simply stomped on him as soon as he’d transformed, killing him on principle. Hell, Ron might’ve asked him to. 

Harry, of course, was a Phoenix, a fucking magnificent Phoenix. The tosspot!  He was sleek and black, with red and gold at the tips of his wings and tail. It was the same gold color as those flames he could produce, the same gold color that Polyjuice potion turns when his hairs are added. It made Ron want to start crying every time he witnessed the transformation, every time he saw Harry spread his wings and take to the sky, phoenix song filling the air. It was where he’d always been most at home, where he’d always been happiest. Harry had always been a natural flyer, Ron should have known.

It wasn’t really a surprise, of course, to him and Hermione. They had seen a glimpse of it before. It made sense, really. After surviving the killing curse as a baby, and then escaping Voldemort so many times, then surviving those terrible days, and finally letting Voldemort strike him down in the forbidden forest, sacrificing himself again and again, and yet still he came back.  Harry just kept coming back, literally rising from the ashes. He was definitely a phoenix in Ron’s mind if there ever was one. 

That day, when he pulled the cloak off himself and returned to life in front of everyone in the Great Hall, he became a legend. People would probably write songs about it, tell their grandchildren that they were there, that they’d witnessed the great Harry Potter come back from the dead to defeat the most powerful dark lord the world had ever seen. Of course, Harry had only been pretending to be dead, though he had let Voldemort curse him again, an act which should have killed him, so Ron couldn’t take much umbrage with the tales of his miraculous rebirth. The boy was certainly special. 

The last thing Harry wanted to be, however, was anyone’s messiah. Ron thought it could be useful, though. At the very least, it ought to help him in his future career as an Auror. Surely, just knowing that the indestructible Harry Potter was after you would strike fear in every criminal’s heart and mind. Hell, if the bad guys knew Harry was pursuing them, they’d probably just lay down their wands and come quietly, which was going to take all the fun out of it for Ron.

They all registered their forms, except for Harry. McGonagall agreed to keep it a secret, like his father and godfather before him, carrying on the Marauder tradition. All of them agreed that it should be kept a secret from the wizarding world, as well. The Headmistress told Harry that there was only one other wizard that she’d ever known who could transform into a Phoenix, which was Dumbledore, naturally, and he, too, kept it a secret. 

Heading up to McGonagall’s office after a quick dinner, they passed Malfoy at the entrance to the Great Hall. Harry and Draco glanced at each other, but otherwise made no acknowledgement of one another as they passed. Still, Ron balled his hands into fists, pushing past the Slytherin and into the corridor. Turning back quickly, Ron glared at Malfoy and was gratified to see his shoulders slightly slumped, looking a bit forlorn.

There was something going on between Harry and Draco, or there had been, at least. Ron knew it. He knew that Hermione knew it too, sanctioned it even, though she never admitted it. She and Harry thought they were so clever trying to keep it from him, afraid of his reaction. Ron may not be the most astute of them all, but he wasn’t blind either. And he did hate it, there was no question. Part of it was just plain jealousy, and being envious of Malfoy left a very bitter taste in Ron’s mouth. But more than that, he loathed what the ferret was doing to Harry. What Harry was allowing the bastard to do to him. 

Ron knew it was something Harry craved, though, a certain degree of violence that Ron just wasn’t capable of giving his best friend. He also knew it was completely voluntary. Harry wasn’t being forced, but it still made him want to punch Malfoy in the mouth every time he caught site of that white blond hair in the corridors. He wanted to knock out a tooth every time he caught Ron’s eye and smirked at him in that knowing way. The little prick!

What the hell did Harry see in him, anyway? He knew Harry didn’t fancy Malfoy, and frankly, that was worse. He knew, but he didn’t want to know it, that Draco had been a Death Eater. Not one who had actually taken part in Harry’s torture and rapes, but the closest thing to it Harry could find. Malfoy was a willing participant for Harry to rage against when he had to let it out.

It sickened Ron when he’d seen a bruise or cut that hadn’t quite healed. His imagination filled his brain with horrible images of the two of them together, doing things that made him burn with jealousy and anger as he listened to Harry’s lies. Because he knew what they did together, knew that Draco had caused the injuries, that he’d struck Harry hard enough to break the skin or mar the flesh. It made him shake all over with rage, actually. He’d witnessed enough damage on Harry’s body to last a lifetime, and he would never understand his best mate’s desire for more of it. 

If he thought for an instant, however, that Harry was just letting Draco beat the hell out of him, or worse, he’d put a stop to it. But he’d seen the ferret limping sometimes, favoring a side or nursing a torn lip. Harry was giving as well as he got. And, of course, he also knew that with or without a wand, Harry could kill their Death Eater classmate without much effort. Malfoy knew it, too. Harry could handle himself if need be, so Ron stayed out of it and feigned ignorance for all their sakes.

Things between them seemed to have cooled off though, now, anyway. Especially after the Christmas Holidays when Harry had spent so much time in Ginny’s company and with his godson. Ron hadn’t seen any evidence that Harry was still seeing the blond pillock for months now. 

Things were changing with Harry, Ron thought as they gathered their things after their lesson, said goodbye to Ginny, and prepared to use McGonagall’s floo to go to Grimmauld Place for the Easter holiday. Harry was slowly pulling himself back together, needing less and less of what Draco could offer him, but also, less and less of what Ron and Hermione offered him, too, which Ron wasn’t nearly as pleased about. Their times together were becoming more infrequent, and Ron was finding it harder and harder to let go.

* * *

 

Ron stepped out of the hearth in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Harry had gone through the floo first and was standing in front of him, his back to Ron, dusting soot from his hair. Coming up behind him, Ron slid his hands around Harry’s waist and then ran them down the front of his thighs, pressing his hips into Harry's bum. Harry grunted, sounding almost exasperated at being tipped off balance, before turning in Ron’s arms to face him. 

“Eager much?” Harry asked with an annoying smirk, his eyebrow cocked.

“Shut up and give me your mouth,” he growled, squeezing a handful of Harry’s arse.

It had been too long since they’d been together, too long since Harry had last come to them, and Ron wasted no time. He’d been jonesing hard for his best mate. Stepping forward he backed Harry into the table so that his arse hit the edge and he was forced to sit.

 “Let me in,” Ron demanded, capturing Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth. But Harry didn’t need to be asked. His mouth opened automatically for Ron’s exploration.

In an instant, he had Harry leaned back, his hands braced on the table for support. Ron’s hands were at Harry’s waist, while he stood between his parted legs. His tongue was reacquainting itself with the contours of Harry’s mouth when Hermione finally stepped through the fireplace. She let out a little squawk of outrage that they’d started without her, but Ron knew it was all for show. She loved seeing him and Harry together, loved watching them like this. 

Harry was never the aggressor, not with either of them, but he was so damn responsive to them both. He’d allow Ron almost free reign over him, willing to submit to him, letting Ron do to him sexually, whatever Ron wanted which excited him to no end. And with Hermione, Harry gave his complete control and unwavering attention. When they were together, Harry was at her command, and Hermione, of course, loved being in command.

Sometimes when they got together like this, they played with toys or with a bit of Polyjuice potion to take on one another’s appearance. They were usually blindfolded, and no one was allowed to speak on those occasions to keep from revealing their identity, the element of mystery a part of the game, though it was usually quite easy to figure out, for him at least. 

Having two Hermione’s or two Harry’s together with you, or all three of you as the same person or each other was mind blowing and utterly bizarre at the same time, but totally hot, too. They learned so much about each other in those encounters, discovering each other’s secrets. Still, nothing beat just having both Hermione and Harry as themselves with him like this.

Their play had unspoken rules, of course, boundaries that no one crossed. Bondage for instance, or really any form of BDSM was unacceptable besides the occasional spanking that Harry sometimes begged from Ron. Harry wouldn’t have minded the pain, would have enjoyed it even, but not the elements of letting someone have complete control over him, both physically and mentally. It was simply nothing any of them ever even considered or had a taste for at all, not after what they’d been through. Ron knew Harry had some kinks, though, some self-destructive kinks at that, which worried him, but he never acted on them or asked Ron to fulfill those desires anymore, even though Ron knew he still wanted it occasionally. 

Harry sometimes needed the pain, craved the punishment, especially if he was stressed or it was near the full moon as it was now. He could still be quite difficult at those times, aggressive, surly and irritable, but Ron just wasn’t capable of truly harming him. The sex was rougher on those occasions, more explosive, like the first time, but he couldn’t wrap his hands around Harry’s throat and squeeze, or take him without ample preparation. He couldn’t allow Harry the knife play that always seemed to bubble to the surface in the days leading up to the full moon. 

Ron watched Harry closely during those times for signs he was harming himself again, secretly cutting, but they were getting fewer and farther in between. He credited these escapes from Hogwarts, these brief sojourns to Number Twelve for Harry’s declining dependency on that form of relief. They spent every possible weekend here they could in the beginning. Staying holed up here from Friday evening until Sunday, when Harry left to pick up Teddy before joining him and Hermione again and the rest of Ron’s family at the Burrow.

“God, I’m horny as fuck,” he panted, pulling away from Harry’s mouth to pull him by the hips instead and grind against him.

“Get off me, you damn brute,” Harry protested.  “At least let me get my coat off first, blimey.”

Ron ignored him, running his hands up Harry’s sides, un-tucking his shirt to get his hands on that warm skin he craved, but Harry fought him off. Pushing Ron so he staggered backwards, Harry stepped away from the table and shed his coat. His hair was mussed, his shirt tail hanging out now as he dropped the jacket in the nearest chair and scowled at Ron. Then he lunged unexpectedly. Catching Ron off guard, Harry threw an arm around his neck and spun him, wrenching Ron’s arm behind his back. Harry had him pinned, his face smashed against the wall so quickly, that Ron hadn’t even had a chance to react. 

 _Damn Seeker reflexes!_ The little shit was fast. It was a skill that would suit him well in his chosen career.

“You’re always horny. It must be a Weasley trait,” Harry taunted, panting into his ear as he struggled to hold Ron, who was trying to twist out of his grip.

Apparently, deciding he was about to lose when Ron managed to push himself off the wall, Harry shoved Ron again and then released him. Harry may have had lighting reflexes and the element of surprise on his side, but he was no match for Ron’s strength and size, and he knew it.

“I think I understand now why your parents had so many kids,” Harry continued to taunt, grinning wickedly and dancing backwards out of Ron’s reach when he’d spun around, snatching at him. “You were just a byproduct of all that rampant fucking.”

“Eww, gross!” Ron said outraged, too stunned to continue his pursuit. “Don’t make me think about my parents having sex, Harry. That’s disgusting! Don’t say fucking and my parents in the same sentence, either. Christ!” Shuddering with revulsion, Ron tried to shake off the mental image. “Horrible. And my parents love me, by the way. I’m not just some byproduct,” he insisted, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. “Come here. You’re gonna pay for that!”

“Leave Harry alone, Ron,” Hermione admonished, stepping between them, and then giggling as she deposited her coat in the chair on top of Harry’s.

“Me?” Ron whined incredulously.

Harry gave Ron a rude, one-finger salute, smiling triumphantly as Hermione turned to him. Moving forward into his arms and ending Ron’s bid for retaliation, she pulled on Harry’s shirt to finish the job Ron had started.

“Git,” he growled as Harry slid his hands into her hair, the playfulness gone from his face, and it was Ron’s turn to watch now.

They looked good together, beautiful to Ron’s eyes as their lips met. While Harry might have roughhoused sometimes with Ron, a game they both enjoyed, with Hermione, he was always as docile as a lamb. She wasn’t made of glass, and Harry knew it, but you couldn’t tell by the way he touched her, always with such gentleness. 

Half the time when Ron watched them, it was through watery eyes. He would feel his eyes stinging, threatening to tear up. It was embarrassing, really, but God, it was stunning to see the two people you loved most in the world together like that. He couldn’t help it. It simply took his breath away. It was the image that cursed locket had shown him in the forest, this, the two of them together locked in a passionate embrace. Ron didn’t know that it was a lie at the time, though, couldn’t see that it was a distortion of the truth. Riddle had hidden that part from him to torment him, but he understood now that he’d been standing there with them. Not realizing that he was behind Harry all along, that it was actually a vision of Ron embracing Hermione with Harry between them, an image of Harry sharing himself with them both that he’d seen.

Hermione’s hands began working on Harry’s tie, trying to undo the knot, and Ron stepped forward again, unwilling to sit out any longer, taking his place in this triad. 

Feeling Ron coming towards them, Harry turned with Hermione, presenting his back to Ron to shield Hermione from him, keeping her for himself with his hands still in her hair and his lips still locked on hers. Ron growled, but without any heat. Then he smiled, molding himself against Harry’s back once more to rub his erection against him. He fumbled with Harry’s belt, back to the task at hand, while nipping at his lover’s neck.

It was a spot right behind his ear that Harry couldn’t resist. An erogenous zone Ron had discovered early on that always bought Harry’s complete compliance, his total submission. Ron’s cock throbbed in anticipation. Another spot was on his spine, right in the hollow of his back.  Of course, if someone were licking their way up Harry’s spine, it was likely he was already theirs and well past the point of persuasion. His nipples were also extremely sensitive, as was the inside of his thighs and behind his knees. The last place was the arch of his foot, but he and Hermione had learned that spot before Ron had any thought of having this kind of relationship with Harry, of ever planning on using that knowledge against him so effectively. 

Leaning his head back on Ron’s shoulder then, Harry let Ron bear his weight while they labored to undress him. Hermione worked on the buttons of his shirt, kissing every new expanse of skin she’d revealed with each button while Ron slid Harry’s belt through the loopholes of his trousers.

“Why am I the only one getting naked here?” Harry asked in mock indignation as Ron tossed the belt to the floor and ran his hands back up Harry’s sides, under the flaps of his shirt to get at that skin, keen to run his hands over Harry’s chest.

“You’re just the only one not helping,” Ron breathed into his ear, pinching Harry’s nipples hard, making him gasp in pleasure.

“Well… I didn’t know the plan… was to toss me on the kitchen table and do this in here… where we have breakfast,” he replied breathlessly.

“It’s not, I just couldn’t wait.” Ron stepped back then, and Harry gasped, nearly falling over backwards, his arms wind milling comically to keep from landing on his arse. “Come on, let’s go upstairs,” Ron said, chuckling as he placed a hand at Harry’s back to steady him.

“Prat,” Harry muttered, though he grabbed Hermione’s hand before following Ron out of the kitchen.

When they entered Sirius’ room, Harry was holding Hermione by the arms he had pinned at her sides, ducked down behind her. Positioning her out in front of him like a shield, Harry peered at Ron over her shoulder playfully. He led her towards Ron, who was sitting, waiting patiently for them on the bed, his shoes already kicked off.

When they were within Ron’s reach, Harry stood up fully and spun Hermione around to face him again. Leaning down, he brushed his lips softly against hers. “I’m helping now,” he announced in a hoarse whisper, kicking off his shoes and working to get Hermione undressed while she carded her hands through his ebony locks. 

Ron stood, unbuttoning her shirt from behind, pulling it open to expose her to Harry’s eyes which were dark with desire. 

“God, you’re beautiful, Hermione,” Harry breathed, taking a step back and running a finger down her neck, and then out across her collar bone, with that same characteristic gentleness he adopted with her. 

Ron agreed, of course. There was no one in the world he would ever think was more beautiful than this creature standing between them. He still had no idea how he’d ever gotten so lucky as to have her. Ron could feel heat pooling in his own gut, watching this private moment unfold, the intimate expression on Harry’s face, the naked desire in his black eyes as he watched her skin flush in embarrassment at his words. 

Harry slid the fabric off her shoulder, and then repeated the process with the other shoulder while she shivered in anticipation at his slow deliberate movements. Revealing her to him finally, the shirt slid down both arms and then silently to the floor while Harry savored her. 

Ron felt like he was watching in slow motion until Harry’s shirt joined hers a moment later, when Hermione had slid it off his shoulders with much more haste than Harry had shown and tossed it away. Harry’s tie had already been stripped off and discarded somewhere, maybe on the stairs on the way up. In a few more minutes they were both standing in just their undergarments and socks while Ron was still fully dressed, but that would be quickly remedied, Ron wasn’t worried.

Harry appeared to be the only one of them that wasn’t in a hurry, unwilling to rush this as he stepped in close to Hermione, and she tilted her head back to look up at him, backing into Ron. 

“Here, tire him out a bit before he gets hold of me,” Harry told Hermione with a salacious grin, pushing them both onto the bed.

Hermione let out a tiny gasp of surprise before they both fell side by side. Ron slid a hand under her neck. Then, pulling her onto his chest, he fumbled with the clasp of her bra one handed while Harry slid the fly of Ron’s dark school slacks down. 

It was his turn. Finally!

Hermione kissed him, working his shirt open while Harry ran a hand over his bulging erection. Ron moaned into Hermione’s mouth while Harry tugged on his trousers, trying to work them down his legs. As Harry was making quick work of what remained of Ron’s clothing, Hermione snogged him until he was dizzy. Then Harry knelt in front of them at the edge of the bed, like an obedient servant, awaiting instruction. But Harry needed no direction tonight, Ron quickly discovered.

Hermione let out a moan of satisfaction when Harry leaned down to her and placed his mouth at her still knicker clad center and grazed her with his teeth. Teasing her with his hot breath on her inner thighs, he ran his tongue along and under the elastic edge until she was whimpering and the cotton fabric was damp with her desire. Then he hooked his fingers in the lace trim at her hips and pulled them slowly down her legs before giving her what she really wanted. Running a hand over Ron’s throbbing cock to stroke him simultaneously, Harry worked them in unison. He had them both panting, squirming under his ministrations while they continued their heavy petting of each other, before he finally pulled away from them.

“Come here,” Harry said, helping Hermione up by the hand. “Ron, you stay there, but scoot back a little,” he ordered, motioning with his hand before looking back at Hermione. “I want you on him, but facing me, all right? Just like that first time I watched you two together.”  

She nodded enthusiastically, and Ron quickly pushed himself farther up on the bed before Hermione straddled him as instructed. Ron was trying to hold back his excitement at the power in Harry’s voice. He’d hardly ever given instructions before. It was totally uncharacteristic. Ron’s heart pounded frantically at the change, at the thrill of the unexpected. Hermione, too, seemed eager to obey, following Harry’s request without hesitation.

As Hermione sank down onto him, facing Harry, Ron moaned at the feel of her surrounding his straining cock, at the beautiful sight of the globes of her arse parting as she took him inside her. Harry moaned too, at the image of them joined together with the intimate view he had of them.

“That’s it, now lay back,” Harry continued instructing, his voice lower than normal, heavy with desire. 

Still on her knees, Hermione slowly lay back against Ron, her back arched up off him, slightly awkwardly to keep him inside her in what was probably a fairly uncomfortable position, though she didn’t complain. While Ron held her by the hips, he began rocking slowly up into her as they found their rhythm. Harry watched them a moment before he knelt again in front of them.

“Oh… Harry,” Hermione gasped as Harry kissed her stomach and then returned his mouth to her folds. 

Ron could feel Harry’s tongue sliding against his cock as he rocked in and out of her. She clutched at Harry’s head with one hand, holding him to her by his hair, the other arm over her head, pushing against the bed to brace herself, arched up off Ron so that only her shoulders dug into his chest. 

Fuck! Ron wished this room had mirrors so he could watch. 

Harry ran a hand up her belly and over her breasts, rolling a distended nipple between his fingers while he continued working his tongue over her. Then he placed the other under Ron’s balls. Cupping them, he massaged them in his palm and dug his trimmed fingernails into the flesh before rubbing Ron’s perineum with his thumb, making Ron moan as wantonly as Hermione now. 

God damn, he had talent! It took only a few minutes of that kind of attention for both Ron and Hermione to come.

Harry lapped at her, and around the base of Ron’s cock as they came down, his tongue sliding against and between the skin where they were joined to taste the mixture of their release, before sucking Ron’s testicles into his mouth one at a time and rolling them against his tongue. 

Then Hermione pulled gently on his hair, and he got to his feet to lean over them, kissing Hermione as Ron eased his softening length out of her. Straightening her legs, she relaxed against his chest, pulling Harry down onto her and squashing Ron underneath them both. He grunted under their combined weight as the air was forced out of him, and Harry rolled to his side, pulling Hermione with him and off Ron. 

Hermione was sandwiched between them then, and they both gave her their full attention, taking turns snogging her, stroking her, suckling and nipping until no part of her body had been neglected and every inch of her skin was damp from their tongues. Then Hermione pushed Harry onto his back and draped herself over him, kissing his face, his neck, working her way down his chest while she fondled him through his boxers.

Sitting up, she grasped the waistband to slide them off, and Harry lifted his hips to help. Then she took him into her mouth while Ron pulled up, propped on his elbow to watch for a bit.  Collecting her hair, which was sweeping against his stomach and tickling him, Harry tried to pull it off of her face, holding it in a loose fist spilling over with curls while he watched, too. Then Harry couldn’t anymore, closing his eyes and relaxing back against the bed, totally boneless. Ron didn’t want to just watch anymore, either. He was ready again, his cock filling with blood once more at the sight and sound of them together. 

Rolling off the bed, Ron stood and reached for Harry’s arm. Interrupting Hermione, he pulled Harry sideways so that he lay crossways on the bed now, his head tilted back and hanging slightly over the edge of the mattress. Harry looked up at Ron standing over him with his full erection jutting out from his body once again. Smiling, Harry opened his mouth in invitation as Hermione took him back into hers.

Bending at the knees and leaning forward, Ron slipped his cock into Harry’s waiting mouth, sliding easily down his throat at this angle with Harry’s neck stretched out until his balls were pressed against Harry’s nose and then back out again. Harry took his full length easily, without much effort, swallowing him whole while Ron ran his hand over Harry’s chest. Harry had one hand in Hermione’s hair the other over his head, braced against Ron’s thigh as Ron lazily fucked his mouth.

Before Ron or Harry came, Hermione sat up, apparently deciding she wasn’t getting enough out of this and straddled Harry, instead. Biting down around the base of Ron’s cock to stop his movements, Harry groaned when she slid down onto him, the sound vibrating around Ron’s cock. Then he released his teeth around Ron, relaxing his throat and mouth again, but gripping Ron’s thigh more tightly when she started to move.

Though both Ron and Hermione loved the position of her on top, it was Harry’s least favorite if he was flat on his back, and he rarely tolerated it for long. Sure enough, Harry pushed away from Ron when he and Hermione had both just really gotten started again. Grabbing Hermione’s hand, Harry pulled her down onto him. One hand at her head as he kissed her, one at her back, Harry rolled with her, abandoning Ron as he positioned her under him. Burying his face in her neck when she wrapped her legs around him, Harry sank into her.

Watching as they made love, Ron stood, stroking himself. He watched the muscles flex under the scars on Harry’s back and across his shoulders as he worked himself in and out of her slowly, both of them sighing with contentment.  He watched Hermione dig her fingers into Harry’s hair and stroke his back with her nails, gripping him with her thighs. Then, aching with desire, Ron crawled back onto the bed with them. Running a hand down Harry’s spine and over his arse, Ron felt the muscles clenching under his palm as Harry pumped into Hermione, but he stilled when Ron positioned himself behind them.

Harry kissed Hermione again before getting to his knees without prompting. Pulling pillows and tucking them under her to elevate her bum and scooting them both closer to the head of the bed, Harry readied himself for Ron. Planting his hands on either side of her then, his elbows locked, Harry penetrated her again slowly, leaning forward and arching his back as Ron ran a finger between his cheeks slick with his own pre-cum to rub his finger against Harry’s entrance. 

Ron slid the digit inside to the first knuckle, knowing that Harry would already be ready for him, casting the charm without a word, even before Ron had touched him. Harry groaned, but remained still, his head falling forward as Ron prepared him while Hermione ran her hands over his back. 

“Oh, God, Hermione, stop!” Harry moaned, tilting his head back. The muscles clenched in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, fighting against the temptation to thrust into her with the sensation of what Ron knew was the contracting of her inner walls as she tightened her muscles around Harry’s idle cock filling her.

Ron circled the tip of his finger against Harry’s prostate to tease him further, and Harry growled in frustration, squeezing his own muscles around Ron’s fingers. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead into Hermione’s so that they were nose to nose, starring into each other’s eyes. Brushing his lips against hers, Harry held his breath as Ron removed his fingers and spread Harry open, grunting softly as he entered him slowly.

“Oi, Potter! Quit giving my girl the eyes” Ron complained when he’d fully seated himself inside Harry. He heard Harry give a weak chuckle as Hermione smiled up at Ron in approval, stroking Harry’s arm as he adjusted to the intrusion. “Save ‘em for the fan girls, lover boy,” Ron told him, trying to sound annoyed, but not really pulling it off. 

He thrust into him instead, and Harry’s chuckles turned into a grunting sigh as he forced Harry further into Hermione. Then they rocked lazily like that for several minutes. Ron balls deep in Harry, Harry balls deep in Hermione, feeling utterly content with the world before picking up the pace as the urgency grew. 

“You fucking show off, come on!” Ron gasped after a few minutes of relentless pounding, the sounds of their combined pleasure filling the room. “You’re making me look bad.” 

Harry was getting nailed from both sides, and still he hadn’t climaxed. It was damn embarrassing, but Harry was apparently retaliating for their teasing of him earlier. Still, Ron probably would have lost his load the minute he sank into Hermione if Harry was filling him at the same time. But Harry could hold on almost indefinitely, it seemed. It was as if he wanted to make Ron and Hermione work as hard as they could to bring him off, to challenge them to break him, a game for control Harry appeared to enjoy and they had played often. It never failed to make Ron even wilder for his best mate, even more eager for the fight. 

The wanker never came when all three of them were together like this, until both Ron and Hermione had at least once, making sure they got all the pleasure out of him they wanted before he let himself go. Harry may have appeared to be the submissive one in this relationship, but nothing could be further from the truth. He submitted to Ron and Hermione because he wanted to, because he allowed it, but he never gave up his control of himself. He held all the power when they were together, power over his own mind and body, over when and how he would relinquish it to them.

Just once, just one fucking time, Ron wanted to beat him at this game, to make him lose that control, to make him come without having to tell him. He’d been close before, nearly succeeded, but Harry was so damn strong willed. It was as if he could simply shut it off, turn his mind off to the pleasure until he was ready to release it. 

They hadn’t been together in so long that it should have been easy to bring him to orgasm. But Harry apparently had other plans, which clearly didn’t involve climaxing anytime soon. Ron wanted to hear him scream, though, to come undone, just one time, and then he’d be satisfied. He didn’t know how, however, without resorting to violence, inflicting the pain that Harry so enjoyed, or strangling the little prick nearly unconscious, and he refused to resort to that.

“Come here,” Ron growled, determined now.

Pulling Harry by a handful of his hair so that he was arched up off Hermione, Ron forced his head back so only his fingertips touched the bed. Then he placed his free hand on Harry’s chest and pulled, helping to brace him and keep from actually hurting him or yanking the hair free. 

Clamping down on Harry’s neck then, Ron sucked hard on his pulse point, his teeth pressing into the tender flesh hard enough to leave marks, but not break the skin while he drove into Harry with renewed vengeance, hammering his prostate over and over as he forced Harry to pound into Hermione with the same force.

“Fuck, oh fuck!” Harry panted, completely at Ron's mercy and unable to control the ruthless pace as Hermione wrapped her legs around them both, digging her heals into the back of Ron’s thighs and pushing against the headboard to brace herself against the assault.

“Ron!” she cried, “God, yes!” She was keening in pleasure as he continued to ram Harry into her relentlessly, the sound of their bodies slapping together and their grunting cries of pleasure echoing in the room with their vigorous lovemaking. 

Ron’s own orgasm was rushing towards him, his balls tightening into fists, his cock swelling while sweat dripped into his eyes, but he was nearly there if he didn’t pass out from exertion first. He almost had him. Harry was moaning open mouthed at the ceiling, his arms shaking uncontrollably, trying to hold himself up, but unable to gain enough purchase. Ron released his hair then, letting Harry’s head fall forward a moment before sliding the hand braced against his chest up Harry’s neck to grip him by the chin.

Forcing his head back again, Ron reached down with the other, touching Hermione where she was joined with Harry and she shrieked, arching up off the bed, held suspended in a violent orgasm.

“Nnnnngggg… Fuuuuuuckkk!” Harry shouted, and joined her, growling as his whole body shuddered violently, and he contracted around Ron. 

Ron exploded then, too, finally, his cock jerking powerfully inside Harry with the victory of its hard won release. Dropping his arms to grasp Harry’s hips to him, he pressed his forehead between Harry’s shoulder blades, curling around his sweat slicked body as he emptied inside him, letting Harry hold them both up by his arms to keep from crushing Hermione. He gasped for breath and lights winked in his vision as he throbbed inside Harry while his orgasm went on and on, until he thought he might pass out. 

All three of them were panting, their bodies heaving as he keeled over sideways, pulling Harry down with him and off of Hermione to collapse side by side on the bed. Ron couldn’t breathe. He thought he was having a heart attack. Drenched in perspiration, he struggled for oxygen, but it had been worth it. 

“I think I’m actually going to die,” he groaned, wheezing with the effort to draw breath.

“I would think so. Christ!  Now who’s the show off?” Harry panted.  “You just made all three of us come singlehandedly. I’d give you a standing ovation, but I don’t think I can actually stand up. Maybe not for a while after that buggering. Goddamn, Ron!”

Hermione hadn’t said a word. Lying sprawled on her back, a hand across her stomach, completely boneless, she mewled weakly on every exhale. Then she groaned. Rolling over and pushing Harry onto his back, she collapsed onto his chest. Stroking Harry’s face once, she slid the damp hair off his temples and his forehead, wiping the sweat from his face and neck.

“My poor darling,” she said pityingly. Then she leaned down to kiss Harry. Harry!

“Hey, I’m the one who did all the actual work over here,” Ron grumbled petulantly, still breathing hard, his heart still thrumming erratically. “I’m the one who ought to get all the post coitus cuddling…  Oh, God! I think one of my lungs may have collapsed.”

“Hush,” she whispered against Harry’s lips. 

Harry chuckled breathlessly, lifting his hand to make that same rude gesture at Ron as before.

“Prick,” Ron gasped, slapping Harry’s hand away. “You always get all the glory, you know.”

Turning his head to face Ron then, Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, you were fucking her through me. Hard, too. Did I mention that? I think I deserve a little coddling after that kind of abuse.”  He ran a hand down Hermione’s back and over her bum, brushing her lightly with his fingertips while he pouted at Ron, his lip stuck ridiculously far out for effect, those damn eyes twinkling.

“Pathetic.”

“Yeah? I’m not the one moaning about dying over here, and you won’t be the one trying to sit down for the next few days without wincing and having everyone look at you funny. If you even think about suggesting a pickup game of Quidditch after Teddy’s birthday party at the Burrow on Sunday, I’ll murder you.” 

“Whatever,” Ron said dismissively. “You know you loved that.”

“I did, actually,” Harry admitted, grinning at him while Ron pushed Hermione’s bushy curls back over her shoulder and off Harry’s face. “You were bloody brilliant, mate.”

Ron rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow and leaned into Hermione, kissing her then with Harry lying sandwiched between them.

“Through me… once again,” Harry complained.

Ron released Hermione. Leaning down, he kissed Harry once, briefly to shut him up, before turning to flop face down on the mattress, with one arm and a leg dangling off the side.  He was completely exhausted.

“You want the middle, Ron?”  Hermione asked him, teasingly. “I promise Harry and I will cuddle with you.”

“No thanks,” he grunted into the pillow. “Harry can have the wet spot, and besides, I hate the middle. You two carry on. I’m just going to have a little kip over here. Wake me up if anything interesting starts happening… or, you know, if you want any more of this.” He gestured to himself waving his hand to indicate his limp, prone form.

Harry snorted.

“For heaven’s sake, Ron,” Hermione chuckled.

Harry ran a hand over Ron’s arse then, and squeezed once before beginning to alternately rub and pat him lightly on the bum in a steady rhythm as if he would with Teddy to get him to sleep. It was oddly comforting.

“Feels good,” he mumbled into the mattress.

“Night, Ron.”

* * *

 

He woke up once in the night to Hermione and Harry whispering, probably having just finished making love again. They did that a lot, the whispering. He was too groggy right now to listen, but sometimes he would for a while, silently eavesdropping on their quiet conversations, but he never joined in. It was something that belonged only to the two of them. That special bonding, the moonlight sharing of secrets, was a sacred trust that Ron would never dare intrude upon.

While the three of them might be together in this relationship, they also had completely separate relationships with each other, too. To the public, of course, it appeared to be only between him and Hermione, but privately there was also the relationship between him and Harry and between Harry and Hermione, and then, between all three. Ron had no idea how they managed to make it work. But it did, harmoniously.

He woke up a second time much later with Harry's mouth around him. His head was under the blankets, the warm wetness and suction of his lips pulling on Ron’s already firm cock.  Groaning, Ron slipped his hand under the sheet to stroke Harry’s head, not too groggy this time.

“God, Harry.  Don’t you ever sleep anymore?”

“Huuhh uhmm,” Harry replied around Ron’s cock, the vibrations of his voice going straight to Ron’s balls. Moaning, Ron arched up into Harry’s mouth.

Their times together were becoming increasingly far apart, and Harry appeared to be making the most of it. School and family and the Ministries demands on their time were partly to blame, but it was also due, in part, to the fact that Harry was finally healing from all that had happened during that terrible year. Ron was grateful, glad for him after all he’d been through, but it also made him long for the days they’d shared together in the tent, and here at Grimmauld Place after they’d escaped the Malfoy’s, knowing that these kinds of moments were drawing to a close. 

Hermione simply referred to their captivity and the days after, when Harry was clinging to life as, ‘those terrible days’ if they referred to them at all. Even if they rarely spoke of it though, the events of those days would forever be in their minds, shaping their thoughts, their futures.  It had fundamentally changed them all, forever, altered the course of their lives permanently. But Harry relied on them less and less for support now. He no longer needed Ron to hold him up, or the both of them to hold him together. The broken pieces were finally fusing back into place. But that was okay. Ron could let him go now if Harry wanted to, if he was ready. 

One day soon, they would leave Grimmauld Place, never to return like this. This old house would grow dormant and dusty again with their departure, locked away, preserved only in their memories, the good ones and the bad. Ron would miss the sex, certainly, and he would always ache for Harry, but they could go back to being best mates with him instead of his lovers if that’s what he wanted. Ron could live with that, could give Harry up to Ginny. It was where he truly belonged if he would just allow himself to have that, if he would just stop punishing himself and open himself up to it. The two of them were slowly working towards it again, and soon Harry would break free, to stand on his own once more. 

Actually, he may already be doing so.

“You’re saying goodbye, aren’t you?” Ron whispered, his chest starting to ache with the sudden realization. 

Harry stilled a moment before sucking hard again, sliding all the way down Ron’s shaft and back up before releasing him to crawl back out from under the blankets. Then he lay down next to Ron, his head on Ron’s chest, still stroking him slowly with his hand. Ron held his breath and waited, preparing for the words he was afraid to hear and wasn’t quite ready to accept, his blood starting to pound in his ears.

Finally, Harry spoke. The words were relayed softly, the admission gentle, but no less painful for Ron to hear. “I’m not really leaving, Ron. You know that, right? I’m never going to be far away, but this… I love you both, and our time together has been so wonderful, but it has to end. We can’t keep doing this. You and Hermione need to move on, to have a relationship and be with each other without me in the middle, anymore. I need to move on, too. I think I finally can now.”

 _No, God, please no! It was too soon_ , Ron thought desperately. He wasn’t ready to let Harry go just yet, hadn’t seen it coming so quickly and hadn’t fully prepared himself for it. The pain was like a knife between his ribs.

“I… I’m going to miss you,” Ron said haltingly, his eyes burning. Blinking to stop the tears forming, Ron clenched his jaw to keep from begging Harry to stay with them because he knew if he did, Harry would, forever. Denying himself what he truly wanted, Harry would sacrifice himself again to keep them happy, and Ron didn’t want that either. 

Foolishly, he’d harbored a glimmer of hope that things between them could continue, even after Harry went back to Ginny. But that wasn’t fair to Ginny and Ron knew Harry would never compromise her like that. It’s why Harry had held her at arm’s length for so long while he gathered his courage to do this. It’s what made him the right choice for Ginny, the only man good enough in Ron’s eyes for his baby sister, his parent’s youngest child and only daughter. It wasn’t because he was Harry Potter, wizarding hero. It was because he was simply Harry, the best man Ron had, and would, ever know.

“You’ve already told Hermione, haven’t you?” Ron asked then, but he knew the answer, knew that this had been what they were discussing in whispers in the dark earlier.

“Yes,” Harry admitted quietly.

Ron nodded sadly. “Yeah, I thought so,” he replied miserably.

Lifting his head at the distress in Ron’s voice, Harry rolled onto Ron’s chest, his hands sliding into Ron’s hair as he looked down at him. “Don’t be sad, Ron,” he whispered when Ron sniffed, unable to hold it back.

Christ! He was going to start weeping like a child, but damn it hurt to let him go. Ron could see Harry’s brow furrowed in concern, worried that he was hurting Ron.

“I’m not sad, Harry… I’m not,” he lied.

“That’s exactly what Hermione told me,” Harry whispered. “But she said it more convincingly.” Then he leaned down to Ron and kissed him, hoping, perhaps, to soothe the pain of his departure with soft lips, a wet tongue and warm skin. 

Ron wrapped his arms around him, crushing Harry against him, inhaling his lover’s minty scent into his nostrils. He filled his lungs with it, hoping it could numb him against this agony.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Ron,” Harry breathed against Ron’s lips. “For making me endure all of your stupid damned therapy. Thank you… thank you for not giving up on me.”

Tears slid from both of Ron’s eyes into his hair at his temples, and he actually grunted as if that sucker punch he felt at Harry’s words had truly been delivered by his fist.

“You fucking sneak bastard!” he growled.

“What?... Why?” Harry asked, pulling up to stare down at Ron in fearful confusion.

“At least you told me this time. You didn’t just sneak off and abandon me.”

“I didn’t abandon you, Ron,” Harry argued with a weary sigh. “I did what I had to do. You never would have let me go alone if you’d known where I was going and what I had planned. I know I was a coward for leaving without saying goodbye, but I just couldn’t face it if I first had to face you. There was no other way. I would have crumbled at the sight of you and Hermione, begged you to stop me, clung to you for dear life. I understand what I put you through, how angry you are that I betrayed your trust, but I came back, Ron. I came back for you, and I always will.”

Ron remained silent, absorbing his words. It was the first time he’d said them out loud, the first time he’d truly explained how he’d felt having to make that wrenching decision alone, the first time Ron had understood and felt shame for his anger over it. Harry hadn’t just calmly walked away from them, happy to let Tom finally end his life. He hadn’t been out of his mind, gripped with sudden suicidal madness. Harry hadn’t wanted to die then as Ron had believed. He’d fought with his decision, struggled with his choice, and went to face The Dark Lord with grief in his heart for them.

“Please, Ron,” Harry begged. “Don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry—”

“I love you,” Ron blurted, gripping a startled Harry by the head and devouring his mouth. Ron clutching at Harry, desperate to touch him everywhere, to feel Harry against him for however much longer they had, hoping the heat of Harry’s body would burn a permanent imprint onto his own.

“Oh, God! This isn’t going to get weird, is it?” Harry asked when they’d pulled apart.

“Shut up, you prat,” Ron snarled.

Harry grinned down at him.

“Are you too sore?” he asked then, desire raging in him. “Because I’d really like to fuck you again right now, if you’ll let me.”

Harry snorted softly in surprise before laying back down and pulling Ron onto him. “No, I’m not too sore.”

“Liar,” Ron breathed into his mouth, wedging a knee between Harry’s legs to settle himself between them.

Chuckling, Harry ran his hands over Ron’s arse. “Well, I think I definitely am going to be by Sunday, if we keep up this pace unless you’re willing to give me an opportunity to finally fuck you for a change.”

Ron’s eyebrows darted upward. He felt breathless with shock at the request. Harry had never once asked him. 

“I… I think I can probably do that,” he replied. “But you know, I’ve never done it before,” he added nervously. That wasn’t entirely true, however. Both Harry and Hermione had fucked him on the occasions when he was Polyjuiced as Hermione, but never when he was Harry or himself. He’d even fucked his own likeness once when one of them was Polyjuiced as him, which had been utterly mind blowing. But somehow, Ron didn’t think this would be quite the same thing.

He had always been the more dominate of the two of them in bed, always the one giving, not receiving in this department. It wasn’t that he was against the idea, exactly. It’s just the role they’d both naturally fallen into.

“Don’t worry,” Harry whispered, rolling them both back over so that Harry was on top again. “I know what to do.”

“So you’ve said before, but aren’t you also the one who said it’s supposed to hurt?” Ron asked worriedly.

Harry smiled sheepishly at him. “Yeah, well, I was wrong about that. I don’t remember what all I said then. I was a bit distraught, but didn’t you tell me it’s not supposed to?”

Ron nodded, smiling as he spread his legs so that Harry now settled between his thighs.  He was nervous, but not afraid as Harry started humping him, rolling his hips against Ron’s and burrowing his face into Ron’s neck to nip at his throat while Ron stroked his back. He knew Harry wouldn’t hurt him. He would be as gentle with him as he always was with Hermione. And Harry did know what to do. Ron was sure of it.

“Are you going to show me, finally, what it is you do to Draco?” he asked, whispering the question into Harry’s ear.

Harry froze for a moment before slowing pulling back to stare at him in shock. He swallowed, hesitating as if he were trying to decide whether or not to lie and deny it, or admit the truth.

“I haven’t seen him for months, Ron, and I’m not going to again,” Harry said, finally settling on the truth.

“I know.”

“How long have you known?” he asked suspiciously, sitting up fully to stare down at Ron with narrowed eyes.

“From the beginning, I think. Please, did you really think I wouldn’t?” he asked at the look of surprise on Harry’s face. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, and Hermione isn’t much better. Even I’m not that thick.”

“Well… then I hope you also know that the things I did with him were never like the things I do with you. But I won’t deny that I’ve had sex with him, Ron.”

“Did the little ferret like it?” Ron asked, strangely even more turned on by the thought and at the sudden image that sprang to his mind of Draco on his hands and knees with Harry behind him, taking his revenge for all he was worth.

“Yes, he did.”

“And did you?” 

“Yes, Ron,” Harry admitted softly.

Ron’s cock jerked at the admission and at the submissiveness in Harry’s tone as he confessed to it. 

“But I’ve never cared for him like I care for you. It was never like that between us. You know that, right?” Harry added quickly.

“I know.”

Harry reached down and grasped Ron’s cock then, squeezing as he pulled on the shaft and milked the pre-come from him before sliding his thumb over the slit to collect the moisture and spread it around over the swollen head in lazy circles.

“Did he scream for you, Harry?” Ron asked breathlessly, arching his back slightly when Harry ran his thumb around the sensitive rim, feeling as if the skin tingled where ever it had touched him.

“He did, but not as loudly as you’re going to scream for me,” Harry whispered hoarsely, leaning down and flicking Ron’s nipple with his tongue. 

The husky and slightly boastful quality in his voice made Ron’s whole body throb, his nipple now tingling like the head of his cock. Harry’s normally submissive tone had taken on dominate note, and Ron’s was starting to feel slightly nervous again, yet excited at the same time.

“Really?” Ron asked with false skepticism. “You think so?” Panting slightly as the tingling intensified, he thrust his hips up to push his erection into Harry’s hand. “And why is that?”

“Because I’ve never fucked him the way I’m going to fuck you,” Harry replied with absolute certainty. Pushing Ron’s leg up to rest against his chest, Harry smiled while he slid a hot finger, tingling with electricity into Ron’s mouth to wet it before running it around Ron’s scrotum, making his balls draw up and tighten. Then he charted a path down Ron’s perineum and across his exposed entrance, leaving that tingling sensation in its wake as Ron’s mouth opened, and he gasped in stunned surprise at the realization that the sensation was Harry’s magic. 

Casting a whispered silencing charm around them wandlessly, Harry followed it with a lubricating spell as he got to his knees between Ron’s spread legs. Ron shivered, staring up at him wide eyed, not knowing what he’d agreed to. Ron had never seen this side of Harry before, didn’t know who this man was, and he was aware, suddenly, that he was totally at his mercy. 

“You mother fucker! What the bloody hell has Flitwick been teaching you in those lessons?” Ron asked incredulously, moaning when he felt the heat and tingling now starting in earnest in the hand wrapped around his cock. 

“Don’t worry, Ron. I’m not going to hurt you. If it does, we’ll stop,” Harry assured him, smiling mischievously at Ron again, who began to whimper in anticipation and more than a little fear while Harry stroked across his entrance again with the tip of an electric finger. 

“Oh, God! What did you do to Hermione, you tosser? Is she unconscious?” He gasped, throwing back his head and clutching at the sheet.

“Jesus, Ron! She’s only sleeping. Calm down. What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

“I think you’re going to make me beg,” Ron confessed, panting as he stared up at Harry wide eyed.

Harry slowly smiled as he arched one eyebrow. His eyes were glowing with power. “Oh, well in that case… you’re right.”

Ron whimpered again. He couldn’t help himself.

“Are you afraid?” Harry whispered, leaning down to him.

“Fuck, yes!” Ron admitted shakily.

“Good,” Harry breathed against his lips.

Ron realized then, that without a doubt, Harry was right in his certainty of Ron’s pleasure as he felt a long and tapered finger, still wet with his own saliva and sizzling with magic enter him slowly. It made contact with his prostate almost immediately, sending a jolt of electricity surging straight up through Ron’s cock. 

Stars erupted into Ron’s vision, and jets of his own come splashed onto his stomach as he ejaculated without warning. Bowing off the bed, Ron howled as the powerful unexpected orgasm consumed him.

 _Oh, fucking hell!_   he thought disgracefully as he was left gasping and dizzy. He wasn’t just going to beg, he was going to scream for Harry tonight.

They were both going to be hoarse and bandy legged at the Burrow on Sunday, Ron realized in dismay, still moaning against the pleasure continuing to course through him from the potent aftershocks of his release while Harry's tongue traveled over his stomach and chest, licking him clean again. He blinked the spots out of this vision before squeezing his eyes shut to keep from seeing the annoying, self-satisfied smirk on Harry’s face. 

Harry’s hands, full of his magic, stimulated Ron, keeping his cock hard while relaxing the muscles of his anus simultaneously, allowing Harry to patiently stretch him open without pain. And only when Ron’s whole body was tingling, and he was begging like a man dying of thirst, did Harry finally take him like that for the first time, facing each other on Sirius’ bed with Hermione asleep next to them, oblivious to Ron’s screams of pleasure.

The boy had talent. Ron couldn’t deny it. Harry had made him come twice more. Flipping Ron onto his stomach, Harry took him from behind for the last one before he was finally finished with him and allowed himself to finally orgasm, too, leaving Ron totally exhausted and completely spent. God only knew what he’d done to Hermione earlier in the night!  He was certainly ensuring that he wouldn’t be forgotten when he departed. Always had to make an impression, that one. 

God, Ron was going to miss him!

Harry lay on top of him, sprawled across his back, both of them slick with sweat, and sticky with their release, breathing hard, and limp with exhaustion.

 “That beats your record, right?” he wheezed, struggling to breathe with the weight of Harry flattening him against the mattress.

“Sorry, Ron. Not even close,” Harry said, amusement in his voice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Nope. Not kidding.”

“Fucking hell, Harry!” Ron moaned hoarsely. “How do you expect us to let you leave after that? Hermione’s never going to be satisfied with just me anymore. I know you fucked her like that, too. Didn’t you?”

“I gave it my best effort,” Harry admitted, lifting up slightly and biting Ron lightly on the neck. “I’ve been trying to talk her into throwing you over and running away with me from the beginning, but she won’t leave you.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet you have,” Ron replied with a chuckle, which made him groan. “Oh, God. I’ve pulled muscles I didn’t even know I had.”

Harry ran his hand down Ron’s side, stroking him and murmuring sympathetically at his plight.

“Stop,” he groaned, shifting under him. “That tickles.” 

“Sorry,” Harry apologized.

“And you’re a liar, too. You’ve never wanted us the way we wanted you,” Ron accused. 

“I’ll always want you,” Harry argued, returning his lips to Ron’s neck. “Both of you. And you will never stop being the thing I'd miss the most.”

 _Then don’t leave us_ , Ron thought desperately. He closed his eyes, fighting the selfish urge to try and talk him out of this departure, to beg him to stay with them until they all grew old together. But he wanted Harry to be happy. It was all he’d ever wanted.

“Ginny’s a lucky girl,” he finally whispered.

“Shut up, Ron.”

* * *

 

Harry had finally fallen asleep, but Ron lay awake in the early light of morning, staring down at him. He watched Harry sleeping on his back nestled between him and Hermione with her hand curled on his chest, his head tilted towards Ron to keep her hair out of his face. He watched Harry’s chest rise and fall with his steady breathing, watched his heart beating rhythmically in the vein at his neck, around the imprint of Ron’s teeth and purpling of the skin from where he’d marked him during their earlier lovemaking. 

Harry was going to be pissed when he saw it today, Ron knew, but he didn’t much care right now as he swallowed and winced, trying to lubricate his dry, scratchy throat. Let him wear it around for a few days like a souvenir, he thought. The wanker. 

It had been just over a year since they first came together like this, almost as if this was a marking of the anniversary of that event. Of course, the circumstances had been much different then.  It was just after Dobby died, and Harry had been mad with grief and self hatred, completely wild and frighteningly aggressive from the full moon, violent and suicidal. Ron had thought they were going to lose him that day, right there in front of them with neither of them able to stop it.

Harry looked at home now, though, peaceful, completely relaxed, comfortable and safe, like he belonged here between them. But he’d never fully given himself to them, never wanted an equal part in their relationship. He’d always saved a part of himself for Ginny, and Ron understood that, accepted it. It was actually the ray of hope Ron always had for Harry’s recovery in those dark days. That the tiny sliver of hope Harry saved for himself meant that he’d keep fighting to get better, that he actually saw a future for himself, however unlikely he thought it might be.

Harry had always been, and would always be the thing that both he and Hermione would miss the most. But him leaving their bed wouldn’t diminish the closeness they all shared, or the love they had for each other, and that’s what it came down to for Ron. 

This man was more than his lover, closer than his best friend. They were woven together too tightly, the ties that bound them too strong to ever be broken. Ron was once jealous of Harry, wanted to be him, wished for his fame and wealth. He never did anymore. Now he just wanted to be with him, near him, to be by his side in whatever capacity Harry desired. It was so much more than he ever thought he’d be given.

Their door would always remain open for him if he ever needed to come in and curl up between them like this, though, to take comfort from them. No matter what, they would welcome him without a word, shelter him from the storm, no explanation necessary, and Harry knew it. 

They would always protect him, just as fiercely as he had protected them in those terrible days.  Always.

~ . ~

 


	48. Epilogue 5. New Beginnings

Ginny’s final year at Hogwarts was drawing to a close, with only the Quidditch final and her N.E.W.T’s ahead of her in the coming days, which had either kept her in the sky with her teammates for hours every night, or in the library studying hard with all her other seventh-year classmates. The stress of those demands, coupled with her Head Girl duties left Ginny eager to see the end of it.

It was in the library one glorious spring afternoon weeks after the Easter holidays that Harry had found her sitting with Hermione at a table, surrounded by a stack of books. Her hair had been pulled into a messy ponytail, her face pressed close to her parchment of notes when Harry came up to them. Plucking up the courage, he asked her to attend the Memorial Ball with him. She was so stunned that she almost couldn’t answer. Staring at him open mouthed, Ginny gaped like a fish and only closed it when she caught sight of Hermione’s knowing grin spreading across her face from directly opposite her.

“Excuse me,” Hermione said tactfully, closing her book and getting up from the table to give them some privacy. She nodded her head at Harry in approval as she passed, smiling reassuringly while color bloomed in his cheeks.

Trying to quell the thumping of her heart at her excitement, trying not to make too much of his invitation, Ginny attempted to compose her features. Harry couldn’t very well go with Ron and Hermione, after all, and he couldn’t ask Luna again, either, because she was going with Dean. That left Ginny as the only other close female friend Harry had.

“I… I’d really like it if you’d come with me,” he said uncertainly when she still hadn’t responded, fidgeting nervously with the cuff of his robes. “Unless you’re already going with someone else, that is.”

“No,” she replied, finally finding her voice. “I mean no, I’m not going with someone else,” she added hastily, trying to clarify when his shoulders sagged, mistaking her response for rejection. “That would be wonderful, Harry. I’d love to go with you.”

“Really?” he asked in obvious relief, sinking into a chair next to her as if his legs wouldn’t support him any longer. She could see the anxiety flooding out of him. “That’s great. I was worried for a minute there that I might have to murder whomever you’d already agreed to go with to get you to come with me, instead.”

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” she asked with raised eyebrows, lips quirking in amusement.

“Yeah, I suppose,” he replied with a shrug. “It seems to be my natural impulse these days. But there would be and inquiry with lots of awkward questions, probably a trial and a stint in Azkaban. Still, it would’ve been worth it.”

“You should probably learn to control that particular impulse, Harry.” Ginny suggested and then smiled at him. 

Harry smiled shyly back before changing the subject. “So, what are you working on?”

“Charms,” she answered. “Do you want to study with me?”

“Sure. I'd like that.”

That’s how it began again for them, finally. Suddenly, Ginny found herself alone with Harry, sometimes for hours on end, getting to know each other again without the constant hovering presence of Ron or Hermione. Ginny didn’t know what to make of it at first. It wasn’t as if the three of them had had a row, or some kind of a falling out, or anything. They were as warm and friendly with each other as ever, but still, something was off. They didn’t appear to be as close, separating themselves from each other both physically and emotionally. The change made Ginny cautiously hopeful.

When he’d left on his adventures with Ron and Hermione, Ginny had been worried about Harry meeting up with some wandering Veela. It never occurred to her that the real threats for Harry’s affections were the companions he chose to take with him: her brother and one of her closest friends. At first, she was angry, hurt by what she saw happening between them. But in the end, she knew she couldn’t deny Ron and Hermione. Harry belonged to them. He always had. 

He was _The Boy Who Lived_ , the hero of the Wizarding world, _The Chosen One_. He belonged to everyone, to all of them. They had all claimed a piece of him. Ginny just wished that a piece of him still belong to her, too, but he had closed himself off to her that day at Ron’s birthday party, and she didn’t know why, what she'd done wrong.

She knew she might always have to share him. She’d accepted that. But selfishly, she wanted the best part of him. She wanted his heart, wholly and completely. She might be jealous of the others, but she could’ve lived with it, she told herself. She’d take whatever he could offer her as long as he gave his heart only to her. Sometimes, she thought she might still have it in the way he looked at her, but he wouldn’t let her get near him, shying away from her slightest touch. His rejection stung, but she couldn’t walk away from him or stop trying. She was still hopelessly in love with him. So she kept waiting.

Ginny had waited for him to come back to her since the first time she saw him at ten years old as he boarded a train for Hogwarts and left her standing on the platform holding her mother’s hand. Of course, at ten, she’d only been infatuated with _The Boy Who Lived_. Now she was in love with Harry, the man she’d come to know. Not _The Chosen One_ , not the hero, but the quiet, selfless, stubborn, troubled man. 

The Harry she knew before he left with Ron and Hermione had been emotionally starved, socially awkward, sometimes moody and quick to temper, reckless, impulsive, and thick as a post when it came to girls. But he was also brave and loyal, shy and modest, with a quirky sense of humor. A risk taker, and a rule breaker, Ginny had loved him for all those traits. She’d tried to offer up a defense against him, but there simply wasn’t one. There never had been. Not for anyone who’d ever met him, certainly not for her. 

The Harry that had come back after the war was much different, yet still the same, too, in so many ways. Just not with her. He was almost a stranger, emotionally at least. He was much darker, much more introverted and even more nervous around her, not allowing her to get too near him. But whatever his flaws, whatever his burdens, she would always love him, always wait for him to come back to her in the end, even when that dream had seemed hopeless. 

When she saw him lying lifeless in Hagrid’s arms, her heart had shattered. She thought her long waiting was finally over, the dream cruelly ended. Sure that she would never again see him walking back towards her. But the wait wasn’t over. And then she’d endured watching him walk past her to Ron and Hermione day after day, leaving her to stare after him again and again this past year.

Then suddenly, when she thought their last school year would come to an end, and they would go their separate ways forever, he walked up to her in the library and asked her out. And she couldn’t have been more shocked to see him, or any less prepared for it than she had when he’d appeared out of the blue one morning at the Burrow the summer before her first year at Hogwarts. Struck just as dumb as if she were still eleven years old again, Ginny couldn’t have made a bigger fool of herself than if she’d stuck her elbow in another stick of butter in front of him.

Luckily for her, he’d been just as nervous. But it was nothing compared to how nervous she felt the day of the ball. It was their first official date, she supposed, even if perhaps they were going just as friends. Ginny wanted it to be perfect, terrified that something would go wrong and ruin it, sending him fleeing from her, once again. 

All the Hogwarts staff (with the exception of Bill, who was with Fleur and their newborn daughter Victorie, who’d been born that very morning), the students, their family members, Ministry employees, former Order members and Hogsmeade residents were in attendance. The castle was wall to wall wizards and witches all dressed in their finest. 

“You look amazing,” Harry had told her, staring wide-eyed at her as she came down the stairs from the girl’s dormitories. 

Ginny had chosen a gown of emerald green to match his eyes, which also complimented her hair, and Harry wore tailored dress robes of the deepest charcoal grey.  Both wore their Order of Merlin medals around their necks at the request of the Ministry, Harry with great reluctance.  Hers sat just below her collar bone, accentuating the cut of her gown as the round gold medallion rested on the slight swell of her breasts with just a hint of cleavage peeking over the top of the fabric.

 “And you look more handsome than ever,” she replied. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill a few people myself today to keep the horde of witches off you. I hope I can do it without completely destroying my hair. It took me hours to get it this way.”

Harry chuckled. “Well, I’ll try to steer us clear of them, then. I’d hate to see that masterpiece destroyed.”

“Do you like it?” she asked nervously. Her hair was braided in multiple strands so that it felt like she had hundreds of individual plaits in varying widths covering her head. It had been pulled up off her neck, woven into an intricate chignon at the base of her head with long strands of her flame red hair loosely curled to frame her face.

“I think I like it best when it’s down and flowing over your shoulders with you in a faded t-shirt and jeans, like at the Burrow, but you do look amazing. It was well worth the effort.”

Reaching the bottom step, Ginny stood eye to eye with him. Something about the look on his face made her think she was seeing the Harry of old again, and she relaxed at last. There was no fear or panic in his eyes, just emerald green orbs staring calmly into hers. Smiling, she reached up to brush a piece of lint off his shoulder and was pleased to see that he held his ground and didn’t flinch away from her touch.

“And I like you best at the Burrow, too, with drool on your shirt and tiny sticky smudge marks on your glasses, holding a fat little baby and looking happy and content. Not nervous and uncomfortable like I know you’re probably going to be today, but you still look ridiculously great right now.”

“Hopefully more great than ridiculous,” he quipped dryly.

“That remains to be seen,” she replied, lips quirking as she took his arm. “No pressure though.”

“I’ll do my best not to embarrass you, then,” Harry said soberly, though he was fighting a grin.

“Oh, you could never embarrass me, Harry. I have Ron for that.”

Snorting softly, Harry led her to the portrait hole.

The anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts was proclaimed a school holiday, dedicated to the remembrance of all who’d lost their lives to protect the school. In all, it was a beautiful and somber affair. The afternoon was devoted to speechmaking and the placing of a commemorative statue in the courtyard. Made of bronze and life size, it depicted a fallen wizard, his head in the lap of a female student who was looking down at him, a hand at his face as if stroking his head to comfort him. A third wizard was standing over them, wand raised in his right hand, his face tilted to the sky with his other hand at the girl’s shoulder. A Centaur stood behind them, shielding them with his long, powerful body, bow strung with an arrow and raised facing the left, and on the girls other side stood a fierce house elf, clutching a knife in his raised fist, poised to strike. It gave Ginny chills to see it, bringing back the terrible memories of that night when she’d fled from her own grief at Fred’s death to sit, almost in that same pose, comforting the injured and dying in the reprieve between battles. That girl could be her, was her in that moment.

A plaque at the feet of the standing wizard listed the names of all those persons and magical creatures who had fallen in defense of the school. Ginny read them all, feeling a twinge of pain for every name she recognized, including her own brother’s. God, she missed him. A year on and it still hadn’t gotten any easier to think about Fred.

Harry slid his hand into hers when the emotion of it hit her. It was so uncharacteristic of him these days, so much like the old Harry he used to be. She squeezed back gratefully, but did not look at him, afraid he might let go.

A formal dinner in the Great Hall was planned for the evening followed by dancing and finally, a fireworks display at midnight provided by Weasley’s Wizard Weezes, which lasted for the duration of the time of the short second wave of battle. Sparks showered down on them like the rain of spells that fell over the Hogwarts grounds that night. It told the story of the battle, the magical fireworks forming into huge giants and then spiders, the night sky a riot of colored filled with sparks and loud explosions. 

But then, all went quiet suddenly, they sky going dark as the smoke cleared, symbolizing the cease fire between the first and second battle, and to Ginny, Harry’s sacrifice and death. Then after a full minute of silence, the sky exploded again into the sorting hat for a moment before it burst into flames. Several people nearby her jumped or shrieked in surprise. Then it morphed into a large snake, whose head was sliced off by a sparkling silver sword, drawing a loud cheer of, “NEVILLE!” from the excited crowd watching below.

Neville stood a short distance from her beside his proud grandmother in her vulture topped hat. Ginny couldn’t help but turn to look at him with pride, like so many others. He looked horribly embarrassed by the accolades and the hearty slaps on his back he was receiving from those around him. Even in the darkness, Ginny could see his face glowing red.  Looking at Harry then, Ginny found him grinning at her. She beamed back a moment before returning her eyes to the night sky, which was filled once more with images and sounds.  She saw Centaurs, their golden arrows falling from the sky, each blossoming into a fierce, knife-wielding house elf, which drew an appreciative whoop from Ron, who was standing directly behind her.

It concluded with the moment Tom Riddle fell, finishing with an explosion of green sparks that formed the dark mark high in the sky, drawing gasps from the watching crowd.  But before anyone could panic, it was pierced by a lightning bolt of red, which sent the crowd screaming again in wild jubilation.

“Oh, Christ!” Harry moaned into her ear, bending down to hide from the eyes of the searching crowd, afraid, perhaps, of being stampeded by a mob of adoring fans who’d been whipped into a frenzy. “Overdoing this thing a bit, isn’t he? I’m going to kill George!”

Ginny chuckled, but didn’t reply. Then Ron thumped him hard on the back of the head and Harry turned, scowling at him a moment before straightened back up. He rubbed the spot furiously as Hermione scolded Ron.

Her brother was still a giant prat, but he did look very handsome this evening. His dress robes were navy blue, the color of his own eyes, but what really set off his look was the beautiful accessory he had on his arm. Hermione looked simply stunning in robes of glowing copper, which complimented her gorgeous skin tone, the cut of the gown accentuating her tiny waist. Her auburn hair was done up in a loose bun with curls spilling out of it and down her slender neck.

It was no wonder that she’d captured both Ron and Harry, Ginny thought with a pang of jealousy. Hermione was both beautiful and smart, and while Ginny was not usually insecure about her looks or her brains, as radiant as Hermione looked tonight, she felt like she couldn’t compete.

The dark mark was being consumed by gold flames now, and she turned her attention back to it. Finally, Voldemort’s ruined mark was swallowed up by a magnificent glittering Phoenix, which soared through the sky over the grounds. It was a symbol of Dumbledore, but also of Harry, though very few people knew that. Singing a beautiful victory song, it circled the dark silhouette of Hogwarts castle, whose lights came on, illuminating every window as it passed before soaring over the lake and fading into darkness. Its blinding brilliance was burned into Ginny’s retinas, glowing red in her vision every time she blinked, lingering like the battle lingered in everyone’s hearts and minds. It was a truly spectacular display. George and Percy had outdone themselves, she thought.

 “DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY!” Neville suddenly shouted into the reverent silence, thrusting his lit wand into the air triumphantly with his rallying battle cry. 

The crowd responded, answering the call, and hundreds of wands were silently raised into the air, each tip aglow. Ginny’s heart swelled into her throat as she lifted her wand with them, and Harry beside her, did likewise. It looked like a sea of tiny stars had fallen from the sky and filled the courtyard. Then the crowd began to clap and then cheer, roaring as it built, the sound beating against Ginny’s eardrums. She clapped so hard that her hands stung, her eyes brimming with tears as she cheered. 

Everyone gathered in the Great Hall after that and milled about or danced into the wee hours of the morning. Ginny and Harry finally went up to bed at about two o’clock. Ginny didn’t want the night to end, but her feet were aching. Slipping a loose strand of her hair between his fingers, Harry leaned down and gave her a goodnight kiss on the cheek at the foot of the stairs to the girl’s dormitories.

“Thank you for coming with me today, Ginny,” he whispered, gripping her hand in his. It was so warm against her skin.

“It was my pleasure, Harry.”

“Tomorrow…” He swallowed, and then tried again. “Tomorrow, if you want to, I’d like to sit down with you somewhere private and talk. I have some things I need to tell you.”

“I’d like that,” she agreed.

Bringing out a worn leather journal with them the next day, Harry sat her down under a tree by the edge of the lake. Ginny sat facing him in silence while he worked up his courage to speak.  Finally, he looked solemnly into her eyes and began to roll up his sleeves, revealing to her, inch by inch, the terrible scars on his wrists that extended up the length of one arm. Tears filled her eyes at the shame she saw in his. Reaching out a tentative hand, she ran her thumb over the raised pink slash mark across his wrist that she’d only ever seen glimpses of before, yet she could not fathom the full extent as her eyes traveled up the crooked scar on his left arm almost to his elbow.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

Harry swallowed hard. Opening his mouth, he made several tries to form words. “Sorry… I… I’m dizzy,” he mumbled shakily. “This is really hard for me.” Then he took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before blowing it out as she nodded in understanding. Nervously stroking the cover of the journal once for strength, Harry slid from the back pages two envelopes addressed to him in her handwriting.

“I read your letters, Ginny. I read them over and over, but I couldn’t respond. I never would’ve been able to finish what I had to do if I had. But I’ve finished now, and finally recovered enough to give you my reply.” Looking up into her face, he held her gaze for a moment before he looked back down at his hands again. Taking another deep breath, he let it out slowly. “I… I want to come back to you, finally. I want to try again, if you’ll have me.”

Ginny’s heart swelled with happiness at those long awaited words that she'd feared would never come from him. Harry glanced up at her and she nodded her head, opening her mouth to speak, but Harry held up his hand to silence her.

“Please, wait. I want to be with you so badly, but I’m not the person I was before, Ginny. I’ll never be able to be that Harry again, and I need you to understand that. I have to tell you the truth about me, about what happened to me, and what I’ve done. Then you can decide if you still want to be with me, knowing the person I am now.”

“I still love you,” she whispered. She reached out for him, but he pulled his hand back.

“You may think you do. But you don’t know me anymore, Ginny,” he said sadly. “And you may not want to after I tell you. I’ll understand if you don’t.”

She nodded again, mutely, and he began to tell her about all that had happened after she’d last seen him after the wedding.

“The day Bill and Fleur’s got married, Ron, Hermione and I started on a long journey, a secret mission that Dumbledore had left for me. We couldn’t tell anybody then, but we were searching for Tom’s Horcruxes,” he began quietly.

He clutched the book in his lap like a protective talisman while he spoke and squeezed it as his hands began to shake when he got to the part about their capture. In a flat tone, he told her the unvarnished truth about the torture Lucius and the other Death Eaters had put him through, then about what Bellatrix and Rudolphus had done to him, and then Macnair and Rowle and Greyback. Then he told her about Snape and his attempt to save Harry, and about Harry saving him. Finally, looking terrified, his voice tremulous and shameful, he’d described what Bellatrix had made him do to Hermione.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he recounted his awful tale, and Ginny cried for him, for all the things he’d given up or had stolen from him by Tom and his followers. 

Wiping at his face, he then spoke of their escape and what he’d been driven to do to himself to end his grief, and about how Ron, Hermione, Madame Pomfrey, and Dobby, had nursed him back to heath, and then about Lupin’s revenge on Greyback. He told her about her parent’s visits, and then tried to describe to her how he’d felt seeing her at Ron’s birthday party, how hard it was to leave her again, and why he felt he had to. 

“I did punch Ron for that,” he admitted in a moment of nervous levity. “You warned him in that Howler you sent that you would fatten his lip for him if he wasn’t already sporting one the next time you saw him. I did my best, but as you saw, I was pretty pathetic that night. I could barely stand on my own, still much too weak to do any real damage. In fact, I think I might have passed out right afterwards.”

“Well, you probably should have left him to me, but I’m sure you gave it you’re best effort,” she replied weakly.

The corners of his lips twitched up briefly before he went solemn again. He still had more to tell her.

Next, he explained about meeting Snape in the woods, and Draco on the muggle train. He told her about Ron finding out about him cutting himself, and then seeing Rowle and Bellatrix again in Diagon Alley. He admitted to her that he’d killed Rowle and described his assault on Bellatrix and of Pettigrew’s strangling of Ron. Then he explained how Hermione had rescued Dean, Luna, Mr. Ollivander, and Griphook, how Dobby died rescuing them, and how Ron and Hermione had stopped his second attempt to kill himself. 

Then, finally, he confessed the details of the relationship that had developed between him and Ron and Hermione, which Ginny had suspected. You couldn’t watch the three of them as closely as Ginny had watched them and not see it, no matter how hard they tried to hide it or how subtle they were in their public dealings with each other. Still, it hurt to hear the truth from his own mouth, his admission stripping away the doubt she’d clung to about the true depth of their relationship.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I fought it like hell, Ginny. I really did. But then I just couldn’t anymore… not after Dobby.”

“Why did you fight it?” she asked quietly.

“Because I was still in love with you,” he admitted in a trembling voice, his eyes on his lap, unable to look at her. “I always have been, Ginny. But I needed them so badly, and I loved them deeply. I wouldn’t be here without them. They stayed with me when they shouldn’t have, helped me when I couldn’t help myself. Even after everything I’d done, they forgave me. Even as messed up as I was, they still loved me and wanted to take care of me… to be with me, to heal me, and help me see this thing through to the end.”

“Do you still love them, Harry?”

“Yes, of course. I always will, but I never stopped loving you.”

“And are you still seeing them?”

“No. I ended it once… once I was finally strong enough to stand on my own. I would never try to bring you into that. That’s why I couldn’t bear to be near you… why I was so distant.”

Ginny’s heart ached. He would not come to her, would not give himself to her until she was the only one, until he’d stopped having relations with anyone else. The bravery it took to confess his soul, to unburden himself and open up to her about all he’d done and suffered over the last year. It made Ginny love him all the more. She would forgive him anything, and deny him nothing, ever, as long as she lived. 

“That’s good because that would be awfully crowded,” she replied, slipping her hand in his at last.

He looked into her eyes questioningly.

“And I don’t want there to be anything in between you and me, Harry,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

 “You… you still want to be with me?” he asked, in stunned disbelief. “Even after everything I’ve told you, after everything I’ve done?”

“I’m hopelessly in love with you. And you’ve been so far away, Harry, for far too long now.”

“I have no words, Ginny… I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he whispered tremulously as she leaned into him to capture his lips, at last.

“There is nothing to forgive, Harry.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed against her lips. Then his hand slid around her back to pull her against him while the other slipped into her hair to cup her head as he kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on to his trembling body, hoping he’d never let go.

He deserved so much more than her, she thought, so much more than anyone could ever give him. The trauma’s he’d suffered, the childhood that was taken from him, it was an injustice so great that Tom’s death didn’t come close to compensating for it. No amount of gold added to his vault or medals awarded him would make up for that, or repair the damage done to him. The wizarding world owed him so much more than that. They had their lives back at the cost of this one boy, who’d been shattered in the process.

For Ginny, that’s what it came down to. She wanted the rest of his life to be long and full of happiness. She wanted to watch his hair turn white and laugh lines to grow deep around his mouth and eyes. She wanted the life he’d given back to everyone, be one he wanted to live in, too. She wanted to spend the next hundred years of her life erasing the trauma from the first eighteen of his.

“You’re so handsome,” she told him wistfully, stroking his face.

“Please, you haven’t seen me, yet,” he said, gesturing to his arms. “This is just the beginning, and it’s even worse on the inside, I promise you. I’m a lot better than I was, but I’m still completely fucked up, Ginny. And I’m not kidding. My body looks like the result of some mad scientist’s experiment gone horribly wrong. Plus, with the career I’m choosing, I’ll likely end up looking like Mad Eye in the end.”

“What do zese scars mean to me?” she asked, in her worst imitation of Fleur. “All ze mean is zat my beloved is brave!”

Harry smiled. “And you’re beautiful enough for ze both of us, I zink.”

“Well, while we work on healing the ones inside you, then, I’ll look forward to getting to know you again while you reveal the rest of those on the outside to me one at a time.”

He went red. It was so damned beautiful.

“Are you sure, Ginny? I mean…You have no idea what you’re getting into, here. Maybe you should take some time to fully digest everything I’ve said and consider this more carefully.”

“Are you trying to scare me off?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“No,” he argued, shaking his head vehemently. “I’m trying to warn you, is all. I want you to truly understand what you're taking on. I’m a mess at the best of times, Ginny. But at least one week a month I’m going to go completely berserk, you know. I get moody and irritable—”

“I do, too,” she replied, cutting him off.  “So that’s the first thing we have in common. Let’s just hope our time of the month doesn’t coincide, or we’ll likely injure each other with our tantrum throwing.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. Then his face flushed and his mouth split into a lopsided grin before he snorted in amusement.

“But I’m warning you now, as well,” she added, pointing a finger at him sternly, which made the grin slide off his face. “If you get too unruly, I’ll ship you off to Bill’s so you two can howl at the moon together and leave the rest of us in peace. If Fleur has any of her more vicious ancestral Veela traits, I’m sure she can handle both of you werewolf pretenders without even breaking a sweat. And if she can’t, I’ll send along my mum to sort you out!”

Harry gaped at her for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “Werewolf pretenders?” he questioned weakly after a few moments. Still chuckling, he wiped at his eyes before sighing and pulling her against him again. “God, I’ve missed you so much, Ginny.”

They sat together quietly for a few minutes. Ginny rested her head on his shoulder with her arms around his waist while he stroked her hair before he finally spoke again. “There’s more,” he whispered.

“Maybe it can wait for another time, Harry,” she told him. “I’ve had my fill of revelations for one day, I think. Nothing you could possibly say will change how I feel about you.”

“Are you sure?” he asked tentatively. “Because it’s about me and Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, God!” Ginny groaned, burying her face in his neck. “Tell me,” she said with a resigned sigh.

Several hours later, after darkness had fallen, they returned to the common room hand in hand. Hermione and Ron looked up from their places in front of the fire, obviously waiting for them. Ginny caught Hermione’s eye and after a moment, smiled at her. Hermione returned a watery smile back and gave her head a small nervous nod. It was as close as they came to speaking about it for many years. The silent exchange was an acknowledgement of the truth and an acceptance of an apology, even forgiveness.

“You two missed dinner, and I don’t know how he knows, but Kreacher brought you up some sandwiches, Harry,” Ron said in greeting, pointing at a plate covered with a tea towel on one of the small tables.

“Blimey! I can’t ever get away with anything,” Harry grumbled in exasperation, but he looked pleased all the same. “How many are left?” he asked, walking over to retrieve it as Ginny settled herself on the couch.

“All of them,” Ron answered irritably. “Hermione wouldn’t let me touch them.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron. You’d just eaten!” Hermione said incredulously.

 

* * *

 

The day of their graduation, the four of them were again sitting around in the common room in freshly pressed robes while proud family members milled about in the courtyard where chairs were being placed in rows for the ceremony. An hour later, they were lined up in procession with Ron behind her and Harry several heads in front. Ginny couldn’t believe they were here, that they’d finally made it. She was near the foot of the stairs when Harry walked across the platform and up to all the Professors standing on the stage, who clapped along with the crowd for him when his name was called. They all offered him their congratulations as he shook hands with each of them as he passed. 

He paused at Bill who put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, breaking protocol by forgoing the handshake to pull Harry into him for a hug. He’d done the same with Hermione and Luna, and would likely continue with Dean as well. It was a precursor to what she and Ron were likely to receive on their turn.

Hagrid was weeping openly by the time Harry stood in front of him, and this time, it was Harry who broke protocol. Jumping up, he flung his arms around Hagrid’s neck and kissed the startled half-giant on the cheek, which caused an absolute uproar of cheering from the watching crowd. The imagery was a powerful reminder to everyone who’d witnessed those moments when Hagrid had carried Harry's body from the forest and then again when Harry had clung to Hagrid after Voldemort’s downfall. Ginny heard her own mother’s wailing sob over the crowd as Hagrid laughed and mussed Harry’s hair before putting him down.

Harry was still grinning hugely by the time he’d taken the steps up to the podium where the Headmistress stood waiting for him to hand him his diploma. Behind him, Ginny saw tears streaming down Hermione’s face as she looked on, standing on the stage with the rest of her classmates next to Luna, who was patting her hand consolingly.

“Harry James Potter, it is my great pleasure to present you with your diploma and to congratulate you on the successful completion of your wizarding education at Hogwarts with distinction,” McGonagall announced in a ringing voice.

“Thank you, Headmistress,” Harry replied shyly.

“The recitation of all your many awards for services to this school and its students is almost as long as the list of your transgressions since you first began residing within it,” she went on to the delight of the crowd, yet Ginny had never seen McGonagall work so hard to control her emotions and the trembling of her voice. “Suffice it to say that the students thank you, the staff thanks you, Hogwarts thanks you, and I thank you.”

She gave him a tremulous smile before handing Harry the rolled sheaf of parchment tied with a purple ribbon. Then they formally shook hands, before she pulled back and unexpectedly cupped his face. The crowd had gone completely silent again, and Harry stood perfectly still with his arms down at his sides, his face registering surprise and uncertainty.

“Madame Pomfrey bids me tell you that she will be glad to finally be able to give your bed in the infirmary to another needy student, Mr. Potter. She also asks me to give you this,” she added, leaning in to kiss Harry on the forehead.

He flushed with embarrassment as Ron wolf whistled, and the assembled spectators chuckled appreciatively. Then Harry looked over to where Madame Pomfrey was standing off to the side with the other Hogwarts staff, like Filch and Madame Pince, who were not instructors. She had tears in her eyes, but she was smiling at Harry, and he smiled warmly back.

“Then please tell her for me, that I will gladly relinquish it if she promises to continue to make house calls for her favorite patient. I’ll have the tea waiting.”

“I will,” McGonagall agreed with a pleased nod.  “Hogwarts will miss you, Harry. I will miss you,” she confessed.

“And I’ll miss Hogwarts. It’s always been my home,” he told her earnestly.

“Perhaps one day you will return, then. I believe Professor Weasley is saving you a spot. Between you and me, defense was never his strongest subject,” she told him in a stage whisper. “I think he has his eye on Professor Flitwick’s job, someday.  Bill always was a top student in Charms.”

“Well, thank you for the offer. Perhaps one day I will, then, should you ever have a vacancy and I tire of being an Auror,” Harry replied. Bowing to her then, he quickly kissed her hand. He then turned on his heels and took his place among his classmates to wait for the others.

“Show off,” Ron muttered behind her.

Ginny smiled.

 

* * *

 

“You steal my breath away,” Harry told her, looking up at her as they lay on a blanket, hidden in the tall grass of the orchard behind the Burrow on a sunny afternoon in early August, just days after Harry’s nineteenth birthday.

“That’s all right because you’ve taken mine,” she replied. “So you’ll just have to stay right here with me, and we’ll keep breathing for each other.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving you anymore.”

But they would be leaving each other, and soon; Harry with Ron to begin their Auror training, and she to fall training camp for the Holy Head Harpies. Harry was staying at the Burrow now, though, having taken over Bill and Charlie’s old room, and Ginny planned to be back every weekend to see him, so she wasn’t worried. 

He could have moved back into Grimmauld Place or even to a flat in London after graduation, but instead, he’s asked Ginny’s parents if he could pay room and board and move in with them, bringing along Kreacher. Her parents had balked at the idea of him paying, but he insisted on it as part of the deal. Her mother was so desperate to have Harry within coddling distance that they reluctantly agreed after ruthlessly haggling him down on the rent price. 

Hermione moved back in with her own parents after graduation, but spent nearly as much time here as there to be with Ron, who had returned to his attic bedroom. George had moved back in, too, after the war because he couldn’t bear to live alone without Fred. Percy had also returned. Ginny’s three brothers, along with Harry, made so much racket helping to invent or test some new product sometimes, that it felt like all her siblings were back under one roof again.

Bill and Fleur were there almost every weekend, too, with Ginny’s gorgeous niece, Victorie, and Teddy, who was toddling now, was an every weekend regular. The smiling child could be found, under the watchful eye of his godfather, scaring Crookshanks out of the house as he skimmed along on his toy broomstick Harry had bought him for his birthday. Hermione left the clever feline at the Burrow because he so enjoyed chasing the garden gnomes, which helped keep the population under control.

In all, things were back to their normal chaos. Just the way Ginny liked it. Their lives were crazy, but she felt good about where they all were in them. In this lunatic world, normal (no matter how it happened to be defined) wasn’t a bad thing at all.

Harry pulled her down onto him, and her hair slid from her shoulders to spill all around his face when their lips met, hiding them like the curtains of his four poster. He looked enraptured staring up into her face when they broke apart. As if he’d never seen anything like her in his life, as if he couldn’t believe his luck, and how was she supposed to defend against that anyway?  It was so utterly and completely Harry to think he had such a prize when he could have any witch or wizard he wanted. But he was Harry, and he simply never thought that way. It never crossed his mind, probably wouldn’t even believe it if they were all parading around nude in front of him, and some of them had attempted it! 

God, he was handsome, staring up at her with those ridiculously beautiful eyes of his. Eyes that had captured her attention as a ten-year old child standing on a train platform, eyes that made her write horrible prose to be sung to him in a valentine card at eleven. Eyes that, even now, could melt her with a glance, could express everything he was feeling, the depths of his emotions reflected in those emerald pools.

“Oi! There you are.” 

There was a whooshing sound from above them. Ginny squinted up into the sunlight as she rolled off of Harry’s chest. 

“I’ve been looking all over for you two. You want a game of Quidditch?” Ron called down to them.

“Ronald!” she shouted back up at him, picking up a rock and hurling it at him furiously, but missing as he swerved his broom out of the way. “No I do not. You prat!”

“Come on,” Ron whined. “Stop molesting each other. Bill and Charlie are here, and it’s a beautiful day. Don’t waste it.”

“I wasn’t wasting it!” she growled outraged.

But Harry was already getting to his feet. Chuckling, he held out a hand to help her up. “He won’t stop pestering us, you know. We might as well. Besides, you can pay him back by pummeling him with goals,” Harry consoled her.

“I’m going to plant one right between his eyes and wipe that stupid smirk off his face,” she grumbled irritably.

“Don’t you mean in the eyeball?” Harry questioned innocently, a smile curling his lips.

She glared at him ruefully. “What has that troll of a brother of mine been telling you?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, arms raised in surrender as she scowled at him. 

“Liar,” she accused.

“He just said that you sometimes make bizarrely specific threats when you’re angry,” Harry admitted when she continued to glower up at him.

Unable to help herself, Ginny chuckled as she got to her feet and slid her arm through his.  Then she started up a loud chorus of ‘Weasley is our King’ for Ron’s benefit as they made their way back to the Burrow, thinking she might slip some U-No-Poo into Ron’s evening tea for good measure or maybe force him to chew a whole pack of Gum-Glue to cement his mouth closed. The complete git!

She’d bought Harry a new racing broom with some of the money from her signing bonus with the Harpies because he’d never replaced his Firebolt from Sirius. He’d argued vehemently against keeping it, but she’d stubbornly refused to return it, lying and saying that she’d gotten a great team discount, and finally, he relented.

He ran ahead of her to collect their brooms from the shed, but turned back to look at her when he’d reached the door. Smiling at her, he turned again, pushed open the door, and disappeared inside it while she waited for him to return.

She’d spent half her life watching him walk away from her, but he’d finally found his way back, found her waiting for him as she always would, forever. In the end, it was him waiting for her. He waited anxiously for her to return on the weekends to visit, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning at the door to the Burrow as she ran up the lane to meet him, broom slung over her shoulder. And he waited nervously for her now at the end of a flower petal strewn path as her father escorted her down the aisle. 

Harry, as always, looked ridiculously handsome standing there in his dark suit, a hand at Teddy’s shoulder to attempt to control his giggling godson who was batting away flower petals that Victorie was tossing at him. They both looked adorable in their lovely wedding attire.  Five year old Teddy in a tiny dark suit with hair and eyes that matched Harry’s, and Ginny’s four year old niece in a pale green, tea length gown with her strawberry blond hair pulled up like her mother’s.

Ron, George, Bill, Neville and Dean, (with whom Harry had grown extremely close during their last year at Hogwarts), flanked Harry in matching dark suits at the front of the crowded rows of guests, and Ginny’s bridesmaids; Hermione, Luna, Fleur, Angelina, and Gabriel wore the same soft green of the adorable flower girl. Ron and Hermione were returning the favor of being their best man and matron of honor when she and Harry had fulfilled the same roles at their wedding on Valentine’s Day the year before.

On the day that Harry had completed his Auror training, he had asked her to marry him in the kitchen of the Burrow in front of her whole family, who were gathered there, she thought, to celebrate Ron and Harry’s graduation from the academy. Ginny’s mother had jumped up and practically shouted ‘Yes’ before Ginny could even comprehend what was happening when she saw him get down on one knee and pull something from his pocket.

When Ginny did accept, Hermione burst into tears, naturally, and her father (who Harry had consulted privately before asking her) had been forced to hold his wife back to keep her from rushing into Harry’s arms ahead of Ginny. Soon enough however, her mother had her opportunity to hug her new son, whom she’d been desperate to claim since he was eleven. Sobbing, she’d engulfed him in a bone crushing embrace, planting kisses on his cheek, which Harry accepted with good humor.

While Harry was being hugged then by her father and pounded on the back by George, Ron leaned down and whispered into her ear. “He’s the only man who’s ever been good enough for you, you know.”

Touched and stunned by his words, she turned to look up at him in surprise, and he hugged her fiercely. 

“And you’re the only woman good enough for him. Take care of him, Gin. He’s awfully special.”

Eyes watering, she kissed his cheek. “I will, Ron. The best I can. I swear it.”

He nodded, blinking furiously before clearing his throat. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell him I said he was special, okay?”

“I’ll take it to the grave,” she promised solemnly.

Harry’s cousin Dudley, whom Ginny had met only once previously, attended the wedding and chose to bring his mother as his guest, though she looked quite unsure if she wanted to be there or not. Ginny had never met Petunia before, and she and Harry were both quite shocked that she’d come. While Dudley was much more relaxed in the company of so many witches and wizards, he stuck close to her side, possibly because of the grip she kept on his arm. The only people Dudley made sure to steer well clear of were Hagrid, and George, which was only to be expected. They found his relatives at the reception sitting near Hermione’s parents, who were clearly the only other muggles at the wedding.

“Dudley!” Harry greeted his cousin happily with a handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “I’m so glad you could come, though I’ll have to say, this is a surprise.” He nodded cordially to the companion glued to his side. “Aunt Petunia.”

“She wanted to come,” Dudley explained with a shrug.

“Well, I…” she began, but then pursed her lips, looking around nervously.

“This is my wife, Ginerva Molly Potter,” Harry introduced them proudly, saving his Aunt the embarrassment of trying to explain any further. 

“It’s Ginny,” Ginny corrected, throwing Harry a scathing look.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Petunia said quietly, taking Ginny’s hand with her own bony one. “It was a lovely ceremony,” she added politely.

“Thank you.”

“Would either of you like some wine?” Harry asked, gesturing to the bar where Abeforth was holding court with Dean and Neville.

“Do they have any of that butterbeer?” Dudley asked hopefully.

“I’m sure they do,” Harry assured him, grinning.

Dudley extricated himself from his mother then and walked eagerly up to the bar, leaving Petunia standing awkwardly with her nephew and his new wife. Teddy came scampering up just then, pursued by Victorie. He circled Harry’s legs once, arms raised, in unspoken request while he squealed with laughter. By the second lap around his godfather, Harry had grasped his wrists and swung him up onto his hip.

Petunia’s eyes widened as she stared at the child whose sweaty red face Harry was mopping with a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Come say hello, Teddy. This is my Aunt, Petunia.”

“Hullo,” Teddy replied politely, though somewhat distractedly as he was kicking at Victorie’s hands, which were trying to tug him down by his feet.

“Dudley never told me you had a son,” Petunia said in surprise.

“I don’t,” Harry replied, smirking in amusement. “Teddy’s my godson. I don’t know if you remember meeting his father, Remus Lupin. He was a good friend of my mum and dad.”

“My daddy was a wea’woof,” Teddy announced proudly.

“Yes, he was,” Harry agreed, grinning at Teddy and ruffling his hair. “The very best werewolf there ever was.”

“Rraaawwrr,” Teddy growled, curling his fingers as if they were claws at an alarmed looking Petunia. But then she shook her head in confusion. 

“But… he looks remarkably similar to you.”

“Oh, that. Well, it’s just for the moment, I’m sure. Next time you see him, he’ll probably be sporting green hair and black eyes, instead.”

Petunia stared at Harry quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Show her what you can do, Teddy,” Harry prompted with a smile.

Teddy looked up at Petunia, then wrinkled his nose in concentration and turned his hair and eyes the same color as Ginny’s. Petunia gave a little shriek of horrified surprise as Teddy grinned at her.

“Teddy is a Metamorphmagus. It means he can change his appearance at will,” Harry explained.

“Cool,” Dudley commented, sounding impressed as he returned to them with a mug of butterbeer for himself and a glass of wine for his mother, who took it from him gratefully, clutching it in her claw-like hands for support.

“It’s a rare gift. He gets it from his mother, Tonks. You met her once, too, at the train station. She was the one with the pink hair. Tonks was a brilliant witch and a great Auror.”

“Was?” Petunia asked.

“Yeah, both of his parents. My godson and I have a bit in common in that department. Teddy lives with Tonks’ mother, Andromeda, but he spends most weekends here with me and the Weasley’s. My new in-laws,” he added happily before kissing Ginny on the cheek.

“Down!” Victorie demanded, stomping her foot and frowning up at Teddy.

“No,” Teddy replied, sticking his tongue out at her and clutching Harry around the neck. “She’s twyin’ to kiss me, Hawwee!”

“Oh, no!” Ginny replied, wrinkling up her nose in disgust before grasping his little face and planting kisses all over it while he squealed in outrage.

Chuckling, Harry tugged off Teddy’s hot suit jacket and then put him down. “Go play, pup,” he said, swatting him on the bottom. “But stay close where I can see you.”

“M’kay,” Teddy agreed, though he was already scampering off, giggling again as Victorie gave chase.

“And let her catch you!” Harry called after them, smiling.

They spent their honeymoon sailing all around the world that whole summer (Harry’s gift to her) before settling into the small cottage by the sea. Aunt Muriel had invited them to live at Shell Cottage after the wedding, like Bill and Fleur before them. She and Harry had both tried to refuse the generous offer, but with no success. They adored it here, though. 

Harry loved the ocean and the small cozy cottage. He loved transforming and soaring over the dark water with Zosimos at night, sometimes. Letting the current support them above the rolling waves while he sang and his familiar hooted a harmony beside him. The musical sounds wafted back to her on the salty air as she watched them from the shore, with Padfoot, their border collie, belly up beside her. He was actually Harry’s dog, given to him by Ron and Hermione on his twentieth birthday, but he was Ginny’s Animagus partner, like Zosie was for Harry. When she transformed into the fox, he would gamble along the shore beside her, barking at seagulls and chasing waves, his tongue lolling out and grinning like a loon.

Pad, or Paddy—known alternately as Paddles, Puddles, Mad-dog, Maddy, Moody, Pickles, or Bob (Ron’s nickname, of course)—was fiercely intelligent, rambunctious but gentle, and had a beautiful merle coat with one brown eye and one deep blue, like Mad-eye, which Ron said was the reason he and Hermione had chosen him.

Harry loved taking Paddy along on exploratory hikes, and building sandcastles with Teddy. He liked mucking around in the walled garden out back, and being able to tend Dobby’s grave. It had bothered him that the house had been left abandoned except for weekend getaways after Bill and Fleur moved to Hogsmeade. He loved everything about their life here at Shell Cottage.

Perhaps it would not be their permanent home. Harry occasionally talked of purchasing a place in Godric’s Hollow, and who knew, maybe someday, when they had started a family of their own, they might outgrow the three bedroom cottage.  In her dreams, sometimes, Ginny pictured a dozen or so messy, ginger-haired, green-eyed little children, laughing with their father as he made their toys dance around the room for their amusement. But right now, she was content that it was just the two of them, sitting at the kitchen table in the morning sunlight, hair mussed and half dressed, sipping their morning tea. 

They had Teddy every other weekend, as it was, besides Paddy and Kreacher, and she wanted a few more years with her career before they had their own children, though she could probably still play even nine-months pregnant. The Weasley named carried plenty of weight on its own since the war, but once she and Harry married and the name on her robes changed to Potter, her competitors hardly touched her for fear of her famous Auror husband angrily blasting them out of the sky. It was a reputation which was unwarranted, and embarrassed Harry, but followed him nonetheless.

Ginny slid her foot up the leg of his pajama bottoms, stroking him with her big toe while she ran a finger around the rim of her cup and watched him through the eyelashes of her half lidded eyes. Harry stared out the window at the rolling sea as if he hadn’t noticed. When her foot was nearly at his knee and wedged tightly into his trouser leg, his face finally split into a little lopsided grin. Reaching below the table, he tugged her foot out of his pajamas and pulled it onto his lap.

“We just got up. Don’t make me take you back to bed again,” he warned, the hoarse quality of his voice more pronounced, as it always was in the mornings before his damaged vocal chords got warmed up. Or maybe, it was from how much he’d used them last night. Either way, Ginny loved the sound. Slipping his fingers in between her toes, he examined his handiwork from the night before.

They’d been lounging together on the couch, Harry looking adorable as he painted her toenails. He’d changed the color to green, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he worked. 

“They’re as green as a fresh pickled toad,” she remarked making reference to a long ago valentine card as she wiggled them under his nose. 

Harry snorted. Then he wrote his name on her nails in gold, the ‘y’ miniscule on her pinky toenail. She had retaliated by painting his toes red and writing her name on his, laughing when he expressed concern about what his Auror mates would say if they were to see it. Crawling onto him then, she whispered that they would be more interested to see what she had planned to do with him later.

Over lunch the week before, Ginny had confessed to Hermione that she worried Harry might be missing what she could not provide him in the bedroom, though he’d never expressed anything but pure delight with their lovemaking. Still, she wanted to satisfy his every desire, to know all of him, worried that he was giving up something for her. Hermione had then embarrassedly told her about a spell she’d been working on for herself and Ron.

“There’s a device,” she’d told Ginny in a whisper. “A toy, if you will, with one half that slips inside you and the other that fits over you... um... clitoris. I’ve extended that part and charmed it to deliver the sensation to me from both ends when Ron and I use it. It’s absolutely brilliant, but a bit intense the first time. I don’t know how much Ron enjoyed it, but I was a complete mess in minutes.”

“You both still miss him, don’t you?” Ginny asked. It was the first time she’d ever broached the subject with Hermione.

“Constantly,” Hermione admitted with a sad smile. “I won't even try to lie to you about that. Harry is an exceptional man, Ginny. He's not someone you ever get over. You know that as well as I do. Everyone who has ever met him falls hopelessly and eternally in love with him. Even his enemies loved him obsessively and despised him for it. Desperate to kill the thing that made them feel so strongly, the power of his allure made them turn on each other in jealous hatred. Driven mad by their desire for him they wanted to capture him for themselves, hoping to enslave him to them so they could make him bleed for them if they couldn’t make him love them, or kill him to end their torment and ensure that no one else would have him. But Harry couldn’t give his heart to any of them, enemies or friends, because he’d already given it to someone else. What he gave us, me and Ron, instead was a gift, Ginny. He gave us each other and even gave himself to us for a little while, but his heart has always belonged to you. Always,” she said, squeezing Ginny’s hand as they both blinked back tears.

A package had arrived by owl the following day with a note inside from Hermione giving instructions on its use. Ginny had been dying to give it a try since then, but was unsure how to suggest it. The look on his face last night when she’d finally plucked up the courage to present it to him and explained its function, was hilarious.

“Just for the record, I want you to know that I am completely satisfied with our sex life as it is,” he assured her. “I don’t need anything besides you, and I don’t crave anything more than what we have. I'll admit that for a while, I was confused about my sexuality. I'd finally come to accept that I must be bisexual. But I'm only Ginny-sexual now. The only parts I’m interested in are yours. You know that, right?”

“I do,” she replied.

“Then why? Why would you think I need this?”

“I just want to please you, Harry.”

“You do! You always have. Let’s put this to bed, then.”

“I want to try, Harry. Please?” she begged, pouting at him. “Hermione said it’s wonderful.”

Harry groaned, wiping at his face in frustration before nervously looking the toy over again. “We don’t have to do this,” he whined.

“Are you afraid?” she asked, grinning at him.

“A bit, yeah,” he admitted worriedly.

Ginny kept looking pleadingly at him, but she didn’t continue to push. She watched as his eyes kept darting from hers, then back to the box, and then back to her again. Chewing his lip and wringing his hands, he finally caved.

“If I agree to this, will that satisfy you? Can we put it back in the box afterwards and never bring it back out again?”

Ginny nodded, grinning widely at getting her way. Despite his trepidation, Harry was agreeing to let her try.

“Christ! This is going to take some work to get prepared, you know. You’re going to have to be gentle with me, Ginny, unless you want to make me cry.”

“Just show me how, love,” she replied eagerly, standing up and pulling him to his feet. “No, Paddy! You stay, for now,” she added when he’d trotted up to them. Whining, he returned to his favorite spot in front of the dwindling fire and laid his head on his paws, glaring accusingly at them with his brilliant blue eye. “That’s a good boy,” she praised him. He thumped his tail in response, but still looked morose.

“You’re still going to respect me in the morning once I’ve let you have your way with me using that monstrosity, right?” he asked, as he walked ahead of her through the hallway towards the bedroom as if he were going to his doom instead.

“Mmmm hmmm,” she agreed, following. “I promise.”

“Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. I’m not going to have any dignity left when this is over, am I?” he remarked miserably, stripping off and crawling onto their bed before pulling the box towards him and turning the bright pink toy over in his hands to examine it while she closed the door. “And why does it have to be pink? Couldn’t she have picked a more masculine color?”

“We can change it if you’d like,” Ginny offered, stripping off her own clothes. “That’s one of the features. It also glows in the dark, vibrates, and goes from hot to cold.”

“Oh, fantastic!” he remarked sarcastically. “I don’t even want to know the details of the conversation you had with Hermione that prompted this.” He was still bemoaning her plans for him tonight, yet his eyes had darkened as he watched her undress, his body responding with enthusiasm despite his trepidation.

“No, you don’t,” she agreed, joining him on the bed when he reached for her. “I had to break a cardinal rule to never speak about sex with any of my brother’s wives.”

Sliding her hands over his shoulders as she kneeled next to him, she kissed him and he gripped her waist, his thumbs stroking her abdomen.

“But if it’s any consolation,” she continued as she pressed him back against the pillows, her hair spilling from her shoulders all around him. “I have horrible images in my head of my brother now that I can’t scrub clean as punishment. Still, if it’s anything like Hermione described, it will be worth it.”

And it had been. Hermione hadn’t been exaggerating, but if Ginny thought she would have the upper hand with Harry last night, she was badly mistaken. Harry had treated the protruding latex appendage as if it were the real thing. Demonstrating for her all his dormant skills, he brought her to her first orgasm with his mouth and tongue, then to her second by stroking it with the magic in his hands so that it took some time before she actually had the strength again to try it on him. He’d nervously talked her through how to prepare him first, but he was panting, his eyes nearly black with desire, his nipples hard and his body flushed with heat by the time she’d removed her fingers and positioned herself at his entrance. Whatever he’d said to the contrary, it was clear from his reaction that he had been missing this, or at least had the desire reawakened in him at the idea of sharing this part of himself with her.

“Slowly…” he groaned, biting down on his lip with his head thrown back so that the tendons stood out in his neck when she’d begun pushing into him. “Go slow at first, Gin. Let me get adjusted.” 

She tried, but, God, he felt good because every time she sank into him, it felt like he was sinking into her, too. With every thrust she made into his body, she was thrusting into herself which left her in a state of near constant orgasm. When he’d finally joined her, she collapsed onto him in complete exhaustion unable to even move as he gathered up her sweat dampened hair and stroked her back until Padfoot had pushed open the door and clambered onto the bed with them. Snorting his displeasure, at their neglect of him and denying him his favorite spot between them, he nudged a wet nose into her side impatiently, making her squeal into Harry's ear.

Ginny considered Harry a moment, reliving the memory as she took in his features. His stubble covered chin, his sleepy eyes and tousled hair and then his bare chest, which had filled out quite nicely with the constant physical training at the Auror Academy and several years of her mother’s delicious cooking. Remembering how sexy he’d looked last night with her deep inside him, moaning as he bit his lips, matched her rhythm, and stroked himself to completion. The memory made her ache, her body flushing with arousal.

Pulling her foot out of his lap, she slid off her dressing gown and stood up. Harry groaned, his eyes darkening as they traveled over her naked body when she approached him.

“I don’t know, Harry. I think this table looks sturdy enough. We don’t have to go back to bed, unless you just want to,” she told him, coming around the table.

“My, God! You’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he whispered, staring up at her when she was standing next to him, groaning again when she straddled his thighs and settled herself in his lap. Pulling on a lock of her hair, he let it slip through his fingers, and then brushed the long strands back over her shoulders, looking just as enthralled with her as the first time they were together.  He always did, as if constantly amazed that she would desire him.

She’d practically had to drag him, kicking and screaming, into her bed that first time.  Honestly, it was enough to give a girl a complex. He’d resisted all her advances, and she’d been the one making the advances, throwing herself at him like some sex crazed harlot. Like the _Witch Weekly_ fan girls that plastered his photos on the walls of their dormitories and giggled at him seductively in the corridors. 

“I just don’t want to take something from you that I can’t give back. I keep waiting for you to come to your senses and leave, to get the hell away from me. That’s all,” he’d admitted in a strained voice after putting the brakes on their heavy petting one evening. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Believe me. I ache for you every time you’re near me, and all the time that you’re not.” 

Of course, she understood why he was so hesitant. But she was determined. When he’d eventually agreed, and the moment occurred, he was still forced to take a shot of firewhiskey before he could relax enough to finally be with her. The encounter had been painful and awkward for both of them, hardly the romantic first time of her girlish fantasies. His experiences just wouldn’t allow it. Harry was terrified to touch her, to hurt her, shaking all over with fear.

He’d tried squeezing his eyes shut, turning away from her so he wouldn’t see the pain he was causing her as she gave her virginity to him, but she’d made him look at her. She wanted him to know who she was, that she wasn’t Bellatrix, or Hermione, that he wasn’t forcing her, that she wanted this for them, for herself. It was a terribly traumatic first time for them, both scared witless, but things improved dramatically after that. 

He’d come into their lovemaking with many more skills and much more practice than she had, of course, but every new discovery for her or for him felt like the first time for both of them. He approached her every time with such wonder, almost childlike. It melted her heart to be with him. He already knew where to touch her and how to make her body respond, but they learned together how to make each other scream. He’d discovered all the secret places inside her that made her body sing for him, and she could bring him to orgasm with just her words and a single swipe of her tongue.

Last night had been another new discovery, but Ginny knew that it wouldn’t be the last. Even as they both lay recovering, Harry had changed his mind about boxing up Hermione’s gift and hiding it in the back of the closet. Instead, he suggested that she ask Hermione during their next lunch about the possibility of brewing up some Polyjuice potion so that they could see what it felt like for the other.

“Ron and Hermione are coming over today,” he protested weakly when she leaned down to kiss his neck, but his hands were already roaming over her back pulling her into him to rub his erection against her, which was tenting his pajama bottoms. 

“This isn’t even fair, you know,” he hissed in her ear, that gravelly voice making her whole body tingle as he gripped her waist and suddenly lifted her onto the table as if she weighed nothing before kicking the chair aside.

“You’re right,” she purred in agreement. “We can’t just ditch them. I think they have something important to tell us.”

“Really? And what do you think that might be?” he asked absently, running his finger down her throat before leaning down to take a pearled nipple into his mouth, causing her to arch into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as desire surged in her.

“I think you’d better prepare for your godfather duties to increase because I believe Hermione’s pregnant,” she whispered into his ear.

“Oh, my God!” he yelped, jerking back to stare at her, looking pole-axed by her words. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, grinning. “So we better hurry. We won’t want to miss that announcement.” Wrapping her long legs around him, she pulled him against her again. “And try to look genuinely shocked if you can, my love. You know how Ron will pout if you ruin his surprise.”

_~ Fin ~_

                                                                                                        

****

**_What it Comes Down To Lyrics, Isley Brothers_ **

_Here I am loving you, you’re like a dream come true_

_For so long I’ve waited for this time_

_Girl what you mean to me, in reality, is more than I ever hoped for_

_You will always be, more than right for me, each day I love you more_

_Well what it comes down to, this is all I want from you_

_Girl, same as you want from me, that can only be_

_Love and understanding_

_For what we have at stake, a little give and take_

_It’s better than demanding_

           


End file.
